


A Matter of Family

by scarletmanuka



Series: A Matter of Love [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Jealous Sherlock, M/M, Minor Character Death, Sibling Incest, Terrorism, fluffy holiday fun, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-11-01 15:28:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 115
Words: 181,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10924701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletmanuka/pseuds/scarletmanuka
Summary: Sequel toA Matter of Trust.Beta'd byLadyGlinda





	1. Chapter 1

The sounds of Sherlock’s violin drifted down from the upstairs flat, greeting Mycroft as he stepped from the sleek, black, town car. He tilted his head to look up, noticing that the heavy curtains had been left open, his brother’s silhouette dark behind the gauzy film of the lace netting. He glanced behind him as the car pulled away and pulled his key from his pocket, stepping up to the heavy front door and unlocking it, letting himself inside. The door to 221A was closed but light spilled from underneath, indicating that the eccentric landlady was home. Her bridge night must have been cancelled. Mycroft made a mental note that he and Sherlock would need to curb their outward displays of affection this evening, considering Mrs Hudson’s penchant for barging into the upstairs flat without warning. Doctor Watson would probably be quite happy about the change in circumstances, always a tad uncomfortable seeing the two brothers share a kiss, or cuddle together on the couch.

After Eurus’ mental manipulation of John’s moral compass, he had been accepting of their relationship, and had even gone above and beyond to protect their secret. The romantic feelings that had awakened in him towards his genius flatmate had not subsided however and witnessing overt displays of the brother’s love for each other would spur bouts of jealousy. Mycroft had convinced Eurus to not only reprogram his feelings of disgust regarding an incenstual relationship, but to curb the violence the doctor fell back on to voice his displeasure. The jealous moments therefore tended to be comprised of passive aggressive sulking rather than angry ranting and accusations. They were still unpleasant enough to warrant attempts to avoid inciting them though, so Mycroft had even more incentive to behave in a socially acceptable manner this evening.

Not that he and Sherlock were ever _inappropriate_. They were both very private people and did tend to keep their more physical demonstrations to the bedroom, not so much out of a sense of decorum, but because they both liked to keep the more sentimental sides of themselves hidden from all but each other. So although they would share the odd touch or kiss whilst around John, they reserved their real passion for time alone. The diplomat had a feeling that tonight Sherlock may want to relax his stance on that. Mycroft had been so caught up in the organisation and coordination of the Anti Terrorism Conference that he’d had very little time to spend with his brother. Sherlock would surely feel the need to pounce on his sibling the moment he walked in the door, especially considering his mini-meltdown last week over the lack of time they’d had to themselves recently.

Indeed this was the case, as the violin stopped abruptly when Mycroft’s foot touched the top of the stairs and then the door was thrown open before he’d even touched the handle. Sherlock’s arms were around his neck and his lips glued to Mycroft’s before the older man could even utter hello. Shuffling his valise to the hand holding his umbrella, he managed to curl his now free arm around Sherlock’s waist, holding him close and losing himself in the kiss. His brother’s plump lips were soft and pliant against his own and he fought down the small moan that threatened to escape his throat. Every now and then he was struck by how lucky he was that he and Sherlock had allowed themselves to accept their feelings for each other and give in to the desire to be with one another. He didn’t know what he would have done if he couldn’t have this in his life, as it was too horrid to even contemplate.

There was the sound of small feet running and then Mycroft felt something collide with his legs and hold on. He broke the kiss and looked down to see Rosie grinning up at him, her blue eyes bright in her chubby face. “Mycie!” she cried, tugging on his trouser leg. “Up!” she demanded. Ignoring his brother’s smirk but allowing him to take his brolly and bag, he hoisted the child into his arms and carried her into the sitting room. John was in the kitchen, plating up dinner and he smiled at the eldest Holmes.

“Hey, Mycroft. Just in time for dinner if you want some.”

“Just a little, thanks, John. I had a late lunch.” He sat himself down on the couch and allowed Rosie to arrange herself on his lap, her face leaning against his chest, her thumb in her mouth, and eyes closing contentedly as she snuggled against him. The way she had taken to Mycroft had mirrored the way cats acted around him - he wasn’t overly fond of children _or_ cats, and tended to ignore them when at all possible. This seemed to only intrigue the attention seeking creatures and he would find himself unwittingly the object of their curiosity. The first time Rosie had crawled onto his lap had shocked him and he had sat with his arms hovering awkwardly in the air as he looked down at her in confusion. From that day onwards, she spent as much time as he would allow being carried around or snuggled in his arms. Mycroft tolerated it mostly to keep Sherlock happy, but he would much rather it was his brother on his lap than the toddler.

“Rosie,” John called. “Time to get in your chair - dinner’s ready.”

“No,” she said, burying her face deeper in Mycroft’s shirt.

“None of that, missy. Come over here, now.”

She shook her head, refusing to even look at her father.

“Rosamund!” John said in a stern voice. “Now.”

She pulled back and looked up at Mycroft with a pout. “Up?”

He sighed and stood from the couch, carrying her across to her high chair. He strapped her in, and then walked over to the sink to fill some glasses with water to have with dinner. He felt arms wrap around him and he leaned back against Sherlock’s chest. “I’m glad you’re here,” Sherlock whispered against his ear, then pressed a kiss to his neck.

“Mmm, me too. It’s been a long day.”

“Sherlock, can you leave off molesting your brother until _after_ dinner?” John asked in exasperation, as he squeezed past them to put the empty pan in the sink. 

“Not really,” the detective grumbled, but he let his arms fall away and went and took his place at the small table. They had taken to eating in the kitchen ever since Mrs Hudson had complained about the food that was getting trodden into the carpet when Rosie’s highchair was used in the sitting room. It was much easier to clean the mess up off the linoleum after the child had turned her meal into projectiles instead of eating it. Needing to keep the table clear of dangerous chemicals and experiments had vexed Sherlock but he’d happily accepted Mycroft’s offer to set up a lab of sorts in the garage at his house. Although he didn’t have to find excuses for John to stay at Mycroft’s, it was a handy explanation for Mrs Hudson and Lestrade as to why he spent so much time there when Pall Mall wasn’t exactly next door.

Mycroft sat as well and accepted the plate John handed over that had a small serving of chicken cacciatore and rice on it. The doctor had taken to making home cooked meals once his daughter had moved on from baby food as he didn’t want her eating takeaways constantly. Mycroft had been surprised to find that John wasn’t half bad in the kitchen and even Sherlock ate most meals without complaint. He always made enough for all of them and they had shared many meals in companionable conversation. If it hadn’t been to their benefit, Mycroft would have found John’s personality change terrifying. The sheer power to manipulate that Eurus held was something that needed to be tightly controlled. As much as he thought he could fix most of the world’s problems by gathering world leaders into his sister’s cell, they all knew from experience how deadly it was when used for the wrong reasons.

“How did the first day of the conference go?” Sherlock asked, pulling him from his reverie.

Mycroft sighed. “Tedious. It was inevitably just housekeeping - introducing delegates and running over the agenda items, discussing what we hope to achieve, making sure certain people are kept separate so we don’t accidentally kickoff World War Three whilst there...that sort of thing.”

“It sounds horribly dull,” Sherlock commented.

Mycroft gave him a fond smile. “Unfortunately gatherings such as these are essential to maintaining international relations.”

“I thought they were more for the opportunity to spy upon our enemies.”

“Yes, well, that’s just par for the course.”

“As long as some good comes from it,” John interjected, knowing if he left them to it, the brothers would bicker cheerfully throughout the meal.

“This is just a gathering of the European countries, John,” Mycroft explained. “There is a further conference in several months being held in Vancouver in which all countries are invited to attend. That will be where we will get a real feel for any benefits from the meetings.”

“Will you need to attend that one as well?” the doctor asked.

Mycroft glanced over at his brother and noticed the slight tightening of his lips. “Yes, I am expected to go.” He’d already discussed this with Sherlock, and his brother had not been happy at the prospect of being separated for the two weeks in total he’d be away. He was working on a plan with Anthea in which Sherlock could accompany him, but he wasn’t going to mention it just yet. He didn’t want to get his brother’s hopes up only to disappoint him.

John glanced between them, reading the tension his question had caused and he delicately changed the subject. “I meant to ask, Sherlock, if you would mind watching Rosie on Friday night? I have a date and Mrs Hudson can’t take her as she’s going to visit her sister for the weekend.”

“Of course,” the detective agreed. “Is this a new one then?”

John nodded and took a sip of his water, hiding the flush that had spread across his cheeks. He’d started online dating several months ago and had already worked his way through a handful of women. It was reminiscent of the early days of their friendship, although this time it was John who seemed to be sabotaging his attempts, not Sherlock. The few times he had brought women back to the flat and Mycroft had been there, his brother had been unfailingly polite. It was obviously the doctor’s attempt to get past his infatuation with his flatmate, but it didn't seem to be working. Mycroft thought he’d have more luck if he expanded his criteria to include men but John still claimed he was straight - Sherlock was just an exception to the rule.

They finished dinner and Mycroft helped Sherlock with the dishes while John gave Rosie a bath. It was all horribly domestic, but he found himself basking in the trivial chores he did alongside his brother. He knew that once the kitchen was tidy, they would watch some awful television show (generally one of the crime dramas that John enjoyed) and the Holmes brothers would tear the plot apart. Then John would head up to bed and Sherlock and Mycroft would share a shower together before climbing into bed. It was all very pedestrian, and boring, and _normal_ , but Mycroft loved every minute of it. He would sleep soundly and wake in Sherlock’s bed, and although he would undoubtedly have migrated to the very edge of it come morning, it would be a simple matter of rolling over to find his brother in his arms once more.

He was happier than he’d ever thought he could be. Of course, it was just a matter of time before fate threw a spanner in the works.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we kick off again on another adventure with our boys! I'll be posting a chapter a day again to keep your voracious appetites satisfied, and since it'll be the most regular time for me to post, I'll be doing it in the morning, roughly between 6am and 8am (if I'm lucky enough to have a sleep in!). That's GMT8+ if you want to figure out when that is for you :)  
> Thanks so much for all your support along the way - this sequel would never have happened without it!
> 
> More tags will be added as we progress, but as per usual with me, there will be lots of fluff! And lots of smutty goodness as well :D


	2. Chapter 2

Squinting against the way the sunlight sparkled off the brilliant blue of the water, Sherlock watched the roll of the waves as the helicopter started its descent towards the beach at Sherrinford. They landed and once he was given the all clear by the pilot, Sherlock jumped down from the craft and made his way up towards the facility. He carried his violin case as usual, but instead of making straight for his sister’s cell once he was through security, he headed towards the Governor’s office.

William Dawson was expecting him and he beckoned him in as he closed down a document he was reading on his computer. “Mr Holmes, right on time.”

Sherlock nodded in greeting, trying to appear calm and confident that all had gone well since his last visit, while in truth he was trembling with nerves. “Governor Dawson, thank you again for seeing me. But please, do call me Sherlock. ‘Mr Holmes’ makes me sound much too like my brother.” He gave a self deprecating shrug. “So, how has my sister been?”

The man gave him a friendly smile and folded his hands together in front of him. “She has behaved exceptionally well. She cooperated freely with a number of requests that your brother has made, and has caused no problems at all for her guards.”

“Does that mean you’ll allow it?”

“Contrary to what many would believe of the man in charge of such a high security facility, I do care about the people under my care, Sherlock. They are here as part of their punishment, and there is no possibility of release for any of them, however that does not mean that there is no chance of any form of rehabilitation. Our inmates still have basic human rights and as long as they behave, and the strictest security measures are in place, I am happy to help as much as possible.” He clicked a few keys and bought up a map of Sherrinford. “There is a secure exercise yard here on the top level. It is covered by snipers at all times, and due to your sister’s history, she will be required to be restrained whilst there. If she makes any sudden moves towards the guard towers, or the door, they will fire. Is that clear?”

He nodded. “Perfectly. Allowing Eurus time in the sun, however restricted is all I ask.” He had first raised the issue with Mycroft, noting after one of his regular visits that she had appeared much more pale than usual. His brother had told him that Sherlock would need to raise the matter with the Governor as he would not interfere with the running of the facility again. He conducted personal reviews of the procedures and security every few weeks, but if there were no issues that he could see, Dawson was free to continue as he saw fit. He was much more efficient than the previous Governor had been and had Mycroft’s full confidence. 

At his last visit, he had requested a meeting with Dawson and had made the request. The man had seemed open to the idea, but stipulated that such a privilege had to be earned. Eurus would need to be on her best behaviour, and cause no problems. Sherlock had then asked his sister if this would be something she would want and although she had sounded bored with the idea, he had gotten to know her well enough to know that she was rather taken with it. The fact that she had complied with all the conditions reiterated this fact.

Dawson gave him another small smile. “If you want to make your way down to her cell, I’ll have some officers there shortly to escort you.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock said, and then left his office.

Eurus has taken up drawing several months ago and she was partaking when Sherlock arrived. She had expressed an interest in painting, but was denied due to the need for brushes, which could be used as a weapon. Mycroft had suggested charcoal sketching instead, and after half an hour of experimentation, she had begun producing works of a high calibre. The walls of her cell were now covered in her drawings, and it made it appear much more personalised and cheerful than before, despite the black and white monotones. Sherlock waited patiently as she finished, remaining quiet so as not to break her concentration.

He marvelled at the change in his sister over the past seven months. To a stranger she would still come across as a heartless monster, but Sherlock - and Mycroft - could see the emotional growth she had gone through. Perhaps because they recognised it from their own journeys. Sherlock’s had begun when John had entered his life, but had intensified when he’d found love. As adults, Mycroft had always been the most sensitive one of the three. Although he could detach himself from emotions, fully become the Iceman, he was the one who worked tirelessly for the good of the country, did everything he could to keep their parents happy, watched over his siblings and went above and beyond for them. He had struggled with trusting other people to help him, but as Sherlock had ventured out into the world after rehab, he had learned how to accept the help of others. Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Anthea, and then John, and now Mark all cared for Sherlock anyway, but when Mycroft had asked them specifically to watch over his little brother, to get him through a danger night, or to keep him safe when the work was too dangerous, they had stepped up. He had discovered that it paid off to put his trust in people every now and then, to ask for and to accept help offered.

“Your face changes when you’re thinking about him,” Eurus said suddenly, laying down her charcoal and inspecting her work.

“Oh?”

“Mmmm, it goes kind of stupid.”

Sherlock stared at her for a long moment, and she turned her head to meet his gaze with her dark eyes. Then, he started to laugh, and it echoed around the room. A short time later, Eurus’ lip twitched and she bit down on it to stop herself but her mouth had its own agenda and was breaking into a smile. Sherlock laughed even harder at seeing his sister try to stop her own mirth, and eventually she gave in and began to giggle. He felt his heart soar at the sight, the first time they had laughed together since childhood. She stood and came over to the glass, the years seeming to fall away from her face and she suddenly looked young again, less haggard. 

“You know I’m the stupid one,” Sherlock murmured. That set them off and they started giggling again, leading to confused looks from the guards who entered the room, carrying wrist and ankle cuffs. Sherlock managed to stop laughing but the smile remained on his face. “Our request has been granted,” he explained. “You’ll have to be restrained, but I can take you outside.”

“Oh.” Her breath caught and for a moment, she let down her guard and Sherlock could read her. She had honestly not expected to ever be allowed to go outside again, but had been on her best behaviour anyway, to prove to her brother that she could. She’d not bothered hoping that the request would be granted so those hopes wouldn’t get dashed. 

“I’m going to put these in the hatch and you are to put them on,” the guard told her, looking at a spot several inches to the right of her face; they had all been trained to never make eye contact with her.

She nodded and retrieved the restraints from the hatch. They consisted of wrist and ankle cuffs, with a long chain connecting them. She deftly attached them and then stood still, her hands held as far apart as they could go. The guards then commenced the process of unlocking the door to her cell, guns raised, as one moved forward to test the restraints were fastened securely, while the other covered them. Eurus’ eyes remained locked with Sherlock’s as this occurred, and he could see the excitement in her eyes.

They were led through the facility, armed guards at every corner, moving upwards towards the top level. Eurus did not seem to be intimidated by the firepower aimed at her, but she also kept her movements slow and deliberate. Sherlock walked by her side, a protective hand on the small of her back. Soon they were standing in front of a large door that led to the enclosed courtyard. “You’ll have half an hour,” a guard told them. “You will hear an alarm sound when your time is up, at that point you are to stand on the marked spots in front of the door, ready for inspection. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” the prisoner said in a clear voice.

The guard nodded and signalled for the door to be opened. It swung open slowly, and Eurus took a deep breath as the salty sea air hit her face. She and Sherlock stepped outside and then waited on the marks for the door to close. He looked around, noticing the high, smooth walls of the courtyard, the snipers in the guard towers above them. The courtyard itself was very plain. Short, cut grass covered the area, and there was a solid stone bench in the centre of the space. Two solid bars at differing heights used for exercise were in one corner, but otherwise the space was bare. It didn't matter though, as Eurus closed her eyes and tilted her head back, feeling the warmth on her skin, a serene smile on her lips.

“Would you like to sit?” Sherlock asked, indicating the bench.

“No, let’s lie on the grass,” she suggested instead. They moved towards the centre, and he helped her down until they were lying on their backs, eyes closed against the glare of the cloudless sky. “This is lovely,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

“You earned it, Eurus. Don’t thank me.”

“Have you noticed anything about this space?” she asked.

He raised his head a little and looked around. “Lots of things. What in particular has grabbed your attention?”

She smiled. “There are cameras - lots of them - but they’re all at the top of the wall, looking down.”

“Yes. And?”

“And, how well do you think they pick up sound?”

He huffed. “I am not helping you plan your escape, sister.”

“Oh, Sherlock, I’m not planning on going anywhere. As I told Mycroft, I am not destined for the outside world.” She paused and arched an eyebrow as his breath hitched at the sound of his brother’s name. “It will allow us to talk more openly than in my cell. How is our dear brother?”

“And what of the people who can read lips? You know they will have people on staff who have that capability.”

“Which they will only utilise if they suspect I am up to something. If I give them no cause for alarm, they will be content with the video alone and will not delve deeper.”

“I’m still not sure it’s safe to discuss.” He turned sad eyes towards her. “I won’t do anything to risk what we have.”

She thought about this, and then conceded. “Very well. But just tell me one thing? Are you happy?”

It was his turn to raise an eyebrow. “Happy? I thought you didn’t care for such things?”

She shrugged, closing her eyes once more. “The more time I spend with you, the more I start to learn the difference between happy and scared. I find myself wanting you to be happy, brother mine.”

He watched her, but couldn’t pick up any clues as to if she was serious or not. Eventually he decided upon the truth. “Yes, Eurus. I’m happy. More happy than I’ve ever been.”

“Good, that’s good.” She paused. “So, tell me - how is John Watson?”

  



	3. Chapter 3

Mycroft met with Anthea briefly that morning, catching up on anything important that had occurred overnight. He gave her instructions on how to deal with the few matters that had arisen, and then made his way across to the conference centre. It was a short walk away and he enjoyed the early morning sun on his face as he meandered down there. He decided to stop for a coffee at the small cafe next door, not particularly wanting to indulge in the instant variety they offered as part of the catering service. There was still half an hour before the first guest speaker began, and the longer he took here, the less time he would be subjected to loaded small talk from the various delegates. It was too early in the morning to try and decipher if hearing about Aunt Helga’s arthritis was a coded message for ‘can we discuss a trade agreement in private’. 

There was a short queue to be served, and Mycroft picked up one of the newspapers littered across several tables to read before joining the back of the line. He flipped through, noting a few matters he would raise with Anthea to be looked into, and then smiled as he came across an article about Scotland Yard’s latest conquest. Lestrade had asked for Sherlock’s help in taking out a smuggling operation and two days ago they had made the final arrests. The press conference had been held yesterday, and as usual, Lestrade refused to take the credit. He praised the help of the Consulting Detective, Sherlock Holmes, and the dedicated work done by his own team in bringing about the arrests. There were photos of the men who had been arrested, plus another of the haul of goods found during the raid, and right at the bottom there was a photo from the press conference. Lestrade was talking to the reporters, Donovan was by his side, a hint of pride on her face at their success, and Sherlock was standing off to one side, scowling at the DI. Mycroft swallowed back a laugh and recalled Sherlock’s whiny rant about Lestrade’s inability to take the credit for once in his damn life. 

He reached the front of the queue and ordered himself a latte, making it a large one to get himself through the day. The girl asked for his name and he told her, then repeated it, and ended up spelling it out. She dutifully wrote it on the takeaway cup, her eyebrows quirking at the spelling, and Mycroft wondered how she would manage if someone with a Scandinavian name ever came through the door. He moved across to the other side of the small shop to wait for his beverage, glancing back down at the paper.

“Mycroft?” a voice came from behind him. “Mycroft Holmes?”

He turned around, and froze, never expecting to ever run into this man again. “J...Jonathon?” he stuttered like an imbecile.

The man smiled widely at being recognised and placed his coffee on a table, then pulled him into a crushing hug. “I thought I recognised you! Wasn’t one hundred percent sure until I heard you give your name. How are you?” 

He still hadn’t released Mycroft and the diplomat stood, stiff and frozen, until he managed at last to return the hug weakly. “I’m good,” he managed.

Jonathon finally let him go and ran his eyes over him, taking him in. “You look like you’re doing well for yourself! What are you up to these days?”

“Oh, nothing much. Just a minor position in the government.”

The man raised an eyebrow at him in disbelief and Mycroft felt his heart give an odd lurch. It was uncanny, and was causing his confused body to react in ways it shouldn’t. “I bet there’s absolutely nothing  _ minor  _ about it at all,” he said with a laugh. “You were always the smartest person in the room and were destined for big things. You already had two degrees by the time we studied politics together.”

“You exaggerate,” he said, more from modesty than from truth. Unless he was in a room with his sister, Mycroft always  _ was _ the smartest person there. His name was called and he gave a small smile of apology as he went to retrieve his coffee, taking solace in a few moments of respite from the shock of running into Jonathon again after all these years. When he turned back, he hoped briefly that the man would have disappeared, but he was still standing there, a smile on his face. 

“I have to be next door in twenty minutes, but can you sit for a bit? It would be good to catch up.”

“Next door?” Mycroft repeated, sounding daft to his own ears. “You mean at the conference?”

Jonathon laughed in delight. “See, I knew you were fibbing. If you have anything to do with the conference, then there’s nothing minor at all.”

Mycroft crossed to an empty table and slid into one of the chairs gratefully, before his legs could collapse from under him. Jonathon’s smile grew even wider and he sat down opposite. “What are you doing at the conference?” Mycroft asked.

“I’m one of the guest speakers,” he said. “I teach Counter Terrorism at UEL, and specialise in Security Management Techniques. My first discussion is later this morning, but I’m wanting to catch Amir’s talk first thing.”

Mycroft brought up a mental image of the agenda, trying to figure out how he had missed this. Anthea and Lady Smallwood’s PA, Travis had been the ones to arrange the guest speakers, with Mycroft concentrating on liaising with the delegates. He remembered seeing the name J. Landsbury but it hadn’t even registered that it could possibly be  _ Jonathon _ . He gave himself a mental shake and turned his attention back to the man in front of him, trying to focus. It was so very hard though, when the very image of his brother sat opposite him.

He’d dabbled in University, trying to distract himself from his feelings that he had for Sherlock. As he’d explained to his brother so very long ago now, most of the men he’d been with had resembled the younger man to some degree. Jonathon had been the most like him, not only in looks, but he was also the smartest of the lot of them. They had slept together several times, one night stands that seemed to reoccur regularly, both drawn to the other until Jonathon stated he wanted more. Mycroft had acquiesced, wanting to forget about the immoral feelings he felt towards his sibling, and they had been together for several months. Until Sherlock, it was the longest relationship Mycroft had ever had.

Eventually, he had ended it, the guilt eating away at him. Every time they had made love, it was silently Sherlock’s name on his lips as he came, and the knowledge he was thinking of his fifteen year old brother ate away at him. He had thought that finding someone who could be a replacement would help him get over his unnatural feelings of desire, instead they made them more intense. The longing for the one person he could never have made him distant and sullen, and Jonathon hadn’t deserved to be treated so. It had been awkward afterwards as they both had many classes together, but eventually the tension died down and by the time they had graduated, they had been on amicable terms. 

Mycroft studied the man sitting opposite him, his brain subconsciously taking note of the differences between his old lover, and his current one. Sherlock’s eyes were a glorious nebula of blues and greens, changing colour depending on the light. Jonathon’s were pale blue, much like his own. His brother’s raven curls were thicker than the professor’s but not as tightly wound. The man opposite was tall and thin, but not lean like Sherlock. His mouth was full, but didn't have the distinct cupid’s bow but his cheekbones were just as sharp. His eyes trailed to the delicate wrists, and the pale V at the throat of his shirt, and Mycroft’s cock gave a twitch in response. 

Horrified at his traitorous body’s reaction, he forced himself to make small talk. “I didn’t foresee you taking that career path,” he said after clearing his throat.

Jonathon shrugged. “I always found the motivations behind politics more interesting than the execution of them. It wasn’t that far of a leap to studying how extremists use violence and terror to manipulate governments and regimes.”

“And do you enjoy your work?”

He nodded. “Very much. I used to work for several private security forces and spent some time on the ground in Iraq, getting first hand knowledge so to speak. The opportunity to teach had come up and since I’d had several close calls, I thought it was time to take a less dangerous job.” He took a sip of his coffee. “What about you? Enjoy your job?”

“I do.”

“And what exactly  _ is _ your job?” he asked with a teasing smile, already knowing Mycroft would not be able to say.

Mycroft gave a sly smile and touched the side of his nose. “Ah, that would be telling, my dear Jonathon, and I can’t do that.” He saw a flash of heat in the man’s eyes and silently berated himself. Flirting! That had been stupidly close to flirting, and was what Jonathon had taken it as. He coughed, and glanced at his pocketwatch. “The first session will be getting underway shortly,” he said, changing the subject. “We should head over if we want to be on time.”

They stood and left the cafe, walking together as they headed for the conference centre. Mycroft wracked his brain, trying to come up with an excuse to leave for a short time, so they wouldn’t enter the auditorium together. There was nothing that required his attention without being an obvious sign he was fleeing, and Mycroft Holmes did not  _ flee _ . Resigning himself to his fate, they moved into the large room and found empty seats. Jonathon’s arm brushed his as they sat, and he gritted his teeth, cursing the squished seating. His felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, and grateful for the distraction, he pulled it out. His heart swelled as he saw it was a text from Sherlock.

_ On my way to Sherrinford. Fingers crossed our sister has been a good girl - SH _

The lights were being dimmed and he quickly typed out a reply.

_ Please pass on my greetings. First speaker about to start, will text later. Love you - MH _

_ Love you too - SH _

He slipped his phone back into his pocket, and clapped politely as Amir Nazari came onto the stage. The man began to speak and Mycroft forced all of his concentration onto the speaker, resolutely ignoring the warm presence at his side.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Nazari was just moving into the question and answer portion of his talk when Mycroft felt a warm hand on his arm. He glanced over to see Jonathon inclining his head towards him so he could whisper in his ear. “I’m off now, gotta make sure they have my slideshow ready to go. I’ll catch you later?”

Mycroft just nodded, not trusting himself to speak as goosebumps ran up his arm as the warm breath ghosted over his skin. He told himself it meant nothing, just a normal physiological reaction to such stimuli, but he did spend the remaining time of the talk lost in thought. He had no idea what the social norm was when one bumped into an old flame. He had never expected it to happen to him so he’d never researched it. He was completely thrown by the situation and he found it to be very disconcerting.

Mycroft was used to being in control of any situation. The only time he happily surrendered that control was to Sherlock, whom he trusted implicitly. But Jonathon had just waltzed back into his life from out of nowhere and all of a sudden, Mycroft felt like an awkward, bumbling, idiot. He had absolutely no desire to rekindle any relationship with the man; he was head over heels in love with Sherlock and would never do anything to jeopardise what they had. He couldn’t deny however that there was an undercurrent of sexual tension between them. That was to be expected though, wasn’t it? At one time they had been intimate and surely that attraction wouldn’t just disappear? (Especially since Jonathon bore a striking resemblance to Sherlock). The question now was what did he do? 

He may not have had an awful lot of experience with romantic entanglements, but he certainly had a lot of experience reading people. It was very obvious that his old lover was not currently attached, and would be quite happy to find himself attached to Mycroft. With his penis. Mycroft had no interest in a physical relationship, but he did feel a small pang of nostalgia, and wouldn’t be opposed to, as they say,  _ catch up _ . And although he would need to wait until his talk was over to be certain, Mycroft was confident that Jonathon had superior knowledge in his field. That could come in  _ very _ handy for work, and it would be remiss of him to pass up on an opportunity to utilise such expertise. 

What were the chances that he’d be able to maintain a professional relationship with Jonathon without it becoming awkward? He would need to stick to the agreed upon plan that he had with Sherlock when it came to people asking about his relationship status - essentially that he wasn’t seeing anyone but wasn’t interested. After the disastrous events involving Elliott, he was not going to fake having a partner again. If he rejected Jonathon’s advances with vague excuses, he didn’t think the man would be too happy. He had suffered enough with the petulant antics of the scorned Lady Smallwood. She appeared to be mostly over it by now but every now and then she would make a pointed remark which would leave him wincing. Considering their long history together, he put up with those jibes since they had to work so closely with one another, but could he expect a new professional relationship to develop if there was bad blood?

He realised he was borrowing trouble, something he often accused Sherlock of. He had recognised the signs of sexual attraction, but that didn’t mean Jonathon would act upon it. Even if he did, he might be quite happy with a ‘sorry, not interested’ and let the matter drop. Mycroft did remember him to have impeccable manners. There was no need to jump to conclusions when he may turn out to not have sufficient knowledge to justify seeing him at all past the course of the conference. If that was the case, one or two shared coffee breaks would surely suffice to satisfy Mycroft’s unusual desire to reminisce over old times.

Nazari finished his talk and Mycroft joined the crowd in applauding him, before the lights went up for the half hour intermission. He remained seated while the people around him left, not wanting to get caught up in the crush of bodies during the mass exodus. He checked his phone and to his surprise found a message from Sherlock there. He hadn’t expected one until after his visit had finished so perhaps things hadn’t gone well? He opened it to find a photo attached, and clicked the thumbnail to enlarge it. 

The photo was a selfie of his siblings, sitting outside in the sunshine. Mycroft felt a moment of surprise (Sherlock was vain enough to send him selfies all the time but he hadn’t expected Eurus to participate), and then warmth bloomed through him as he took in how happy his brother was. He had made so much progress in breaking down their sister’s walls, and he continued to be there for her regularly. He visited once every week, ten days at the most, and had even talked Mycroft into coming along several times. As much as he wanted to connect with Eurus, the atmosphere when he was there was more tense than usual, and he didn’t like making it awkward for his brother and sister. 

Seeing that he was the last person left in the auditorium, and feeling a little whimsical, he quickly snapped a photo of himself and sent it, along with the text:

_ Enjoy the sunshine for me - MH _

He then put his phone back in his pocket and went in search of a cup of tea, dodging the Croatian delegate who had cornered him yesterday to have an animated discussion on the best vegetables to use in Goulash. The line for the tea and coffee was too long for him to bother with, so he went to the bathroom and then headed back into the auditorium, using the time to catch up on some emails.

People soon began to fill the seats around him and then the lights went down and Jonathon came onto the stage. He introduced himself and then began to speak about his specialty - Security Management Techniques. He appeared to be nervous, which Mycroft found odd since he lectured in front of larger crowds at the university, and it wasn’t until the professor’s eyes had found Mycroft’s for the third time that he realised that  _ he  _ was the cause of his nerves. He gave the man a reassuring smile, which seemed to bolster him, as the next part of his talk was much more energetic. 

The diplomat’s initial hunch was spot on - Jonathon Landsbury knew his stuff. He turned out to be an entertaining speaker as well (once his nerves were contained), mixing up the delivery of his content and interspersing the odd joke or two to offset the serious nature of the topic. He certainly knew how to keep his audience engaged, and before Mycroft knew it, the talk was over. He decided that no matter what happened between them personally, Her Majesty would certainly benefit from Jonathon’s knowledge. 

There was a message from Anthea asking him to call her when he was free and since they were breaking for lunch, he took the opportunity to return it. He exited the room and found a quiet corner in the lobby, then dialled her number. It seemed the Minister of Finance had ballsed up and the PM was in a panic, demanding Mycroft fix the matter immediately. He sighed as he listened to Anthea explain the issue, and knew that she would have handled it exactly as he would. 

“What exactly does he expect me to do?” he asked.

“You know him, sir. He freaks out whenever things don’t go to plan.”

“I thought he was getting over his need to have his hand held every few minutes to run the damn country. Honestly, how long till the next election?” He heard a laugh behind him and turned to find Jonathon standing within hearing distance. The man gave him a cheeky grin and then mouthed apologies at him, and Mycroft’s mind stuttered to a halt as his memory of seeing that grin in bed morphed with the memory of a similar grin that Sherlock gave him when he managed to tease his prostate  _ just so. _

_ “ _ Sir?” Anthea asked.

“Pardon?” He shook his head and pulled his mind back to the present.

“I asked, how would you like me to proceed.”

“Handle it as you normally would. If the PM asks, tell him it’s on my explicit instruction. If he has an issue with me not coming there physically, he can call me himself.”

“On it. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

He disconnected the call and turned back to see Jonathon looking bashful. “Er, sorry,” he said. “I didn't realise that call was  _ quite  _ so important, otherwise I’d have given you some more privacy.”

He shook his head. “My fault for making the call in a public space.”

“So, you um, boss the PM around huh?”

He rolled his eyes. “Hardly.”

Jonathon nodded, clearly not believing him. “Uh huh, sure. Minor position and all that.”

“You’re very good,” Mycroft told him, changing the subject. “In there. The talk, I mean. The talk was good.” He clamped his lips shut, wondering why the hell his brain had decided to stop working now.

The professor blushed. “Oh, thanks. That means a lot coming from you.” There was a short, uncomfortable silence. “So, um, would you like to get some lunch?” Jonathon asked.

Mycroft nodded slowly. “Sure, I could do lunch.” 

The professor beamed at him. “Excellent. Shall we?”

Mycroft followed him, feverently hoping he wasn’t making a massive mistake.

 


	5. Chapter 5

There was a cough from the doorway and Sherlock looked up to see Mycroft standing there. He blinked owlishly, and glanced over at the clock on the wall of the garage. He’d gotten himself so lost in his experiment that he hadn’t realised how late it was. “Hey,” he said, pulling off the safety glasses he wore. “Sorry, I’ll just clean this up and I’ll be out in just a minute.”

“No hurry,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock paused, hearing the odd catch in his brother’s voice. “Are you okay?” he asked, peering at him intently. He saw Mycroft swallow hard and nod, and concern welled in his chest. He dropped the beaker of solution into the sink and crossed the room in long strides, bringing himself into Mycroft’s personal space. He reached up to cup his cheek, noticing the slight look of panic dancing behind those pale blue eyes. There was a touch of something else there as well. Worry? No, it was something else. Guilt? Confused, Sherlock peeled off the gloves he wore. “Do we need to talk?” he asked, trying to keep the panic that was rising in himself from welling over.

“Perhaps that would be best,” his brother said with a sad smile. 

Sherlock’s heart seemed to freeze in his chest. “Mycroft,” he whispered. “Are you ending things with me?”

“What?  _ No _ !” He was soon crushed against his brother’s chest and then Mycroft was kissing him, hard and needy, Sherlock’s face trapped between slender fingers. “No, brother mine, never,” he said again, punctuating his points with kisses to his nose and eyebrows.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Sherlock stepped back from his brother. “Right, it’s just for a second there...you scared the shit out of me. Okay, let’s go inside so you can explain what’s making you act so odd.” He twined their fingers together and they walked hand in hand through to the sitting room. He sat on the couch and waited as patiently as possible while Mycroft went and poured them two measures of scotch.

“Do you remember our very first night together?” the older man asked as he took a seat next to Sherlock and handed over a glass.

He shot him a look full of disbelief. “You do know who I am, right?”

Mycroft smiled. “I was almost certain you hadn’t deleted it.”

He rolled his eyes. “As if I would ever delete anything that happened between you and I, Mycie.”

He took a large gulp of his drink, and Sherlock could almost read the unspoken thought -  _ Perhaps you’ll want to delete this conversation _ . “You asked me about my experience,” he said instead.

“Yes, you said that you had experimented in uni, and after that you used an escort service when needed.” He paused, his eyes widening. “Oh shit, is someone blackmailing you because you paid for sex?”

“No, nothing like that,” he assured him.

“Then what?”

Mycroft chewed on his bottom lip for a moment, obviously trying to gather his thoughts. The detective wished he would just spit it out - the suspense was killing him. “I ran into one of the men I had liaisons with in university today,” he said. “At the conference.”

“Okay…” He gestured for him to continue, unsure as to where this was going.

“Well, we were talking and we ended up having lunch.”

“So, he recognised you?”

Mycroft nodded. “I didn’t go into detail that night, since there was so much more to think about. What I didn’t tell you is that one of the men I slept with, well, it was more than once, and it turned into a short relationship.”

“How short?” Sherlock asked, feeling his stomach tighten a little.

“A few months. No more than four.”

“You said you’d never connected with anyone before.”

Mycroft shook his head, his eyes pleading as he took Sherlock’s hands in his and squeezed them. “I didn't, not really, Jonathon was so much like you, not just in looks, but he was intelligent as well.”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “So, you’re saying that this... _ Jonathon _ , was just a replacement for me?”

“Yes! They all were.”

“If that’s true,” he said slowly, the tight ball of jealousy in his stomach growing, “then why would you have lunch with him today? If all he was was a distraction from your feelings for me, and now you have me, what reason could you possibly have for wanting to talk to him?”

“I…” Mycroft’s jaw worked as he tried to find words to explain, but he ended up just staring helplessly at Sherlock.

“I’ll tell you what I think, Mycie. I think that the initial attraction was due to his similarities to me, but you wouldn’t have become involved beyond a one night stand if he himself hadn’t captured your attention.”

“Possibly,” Mycroft conceded.

“So, you had lunch. And?”

“And I asked if he would be interested in becoming a consultant for the secret services. He’s a lecturer in Counter Terrorism and would be a valuable asset to the government.”

“And?”

“And nothing, Sherlock. That’s it.”

“If that’s it, then why were you so nervous to tell me? Why are you acting so skittish?”

The diplomat placed his now empty glass on the coffee table and pulled Sherlock into his arms. “I don’t want to keep  _ anything _ from you, Sherlock. I was worried how you would react when I told you.”

“Hmph,” he huffed against his brother’s chest. “As long as the bastard knows you’re taken, then it’s fine.”

“Erm...:”

“ _ What _ ?”

“I followed our plan, Sherlock! We agreed we needed a consistent story to tell people so we wouldn’t get our stories wrong.”

“This is different!”

“How?”

“Because he’s slept with you!”

“And?”

“And tell me right now, the one hundred percent, honest truth - does he still want to sleep with you? Is he still attracted to you?”

The quick flicker of Mycroft’s eyes away from his face was all he needed to know he had guessed correctly. To his credit, Mycroft replied honestly. “I suspect that yes, he does.”

“And what about you?”

“What about me?”

Sherlock pulled out of his embrace and glared at him. “Do you still find him attractive?”

“Of course I bloody do!” Mycroft exclaimed. “He looks  _ like you _ , Sherlock. How could I  _ not _ find him attractive?”

He folded his arms across his chest. “And do you want to sleep with him?”

“Of course not.”

“ _ Don’t lie to me, Mycroft! _ ”

“I’m not!” he half shouted. “Dammit, Sherlock, I love  _ you _ . I would never do anything to hurt you. You are the only one I want.”

“And what if you weren’t with me?” he asked in a low voice, so quiet that his brother had to lean forward to hear him.

“What are you saying?”

“If we weren’t together, would you want to be with him? Since you wouldn’t have to hide him from the world like you do me.”

“For the love of all that is holy...if I wasn’t with you, Sherlock, I wouldn’t be with  _ anyone _ . You do realise this is Christmas all over again, right?” Sherlock pouted, not knowing what his brother was talking about. Mycroft pulled him back against him, and he didn’t pull away. “The conversation we had about Miss Adler.”

“Oh.”

“Exactly. My feelings for Jonathon are very much like your feelings for The Woman.”

“Well, I still don't like him.”

“You’ve not even met him, how can you dislike him already?”

“I just do,” Sherlock grumbled.

“You’re entitled to not like him, I suppose. But Sherlock, I need you to know that I will be seeing Jonathon beyond this week, when I need to for work. I don’t want you to be jealous, or insecure, but I also need you to understand that I will have a professional relationship with him that will require maintenance.”

“What sort of maintenance?”

“Due to his work hours, probably the odd dinner meeting, or phone call after hours.”

The ball of jealousy seemed to flip about in his stomach, and Sherlock tried his best to quieten it. “As long as you tell me about them in advance.”

“Of course.” Mycroft pressed a kiss to his temple and then hugged him tight. “Are you hungry? I can make something for dinner?”

“Not overly,” Sherlock said, only a small lie. He didn’t want to tell his brother that if he ate anything, he’d probably vomit. He’d not had such a visceral reaction since he’d watched Elliott kiss his brother passionately in front of him. He didn’t want to revisit those particular feelings again, but it appeared he had no choice.

“Well, I might just make some omelettes then. Something light but will get some protein in you at least.”

He nodded and managed a smile. “That sounds good.”

“Come on then, keep me company while I cook. You can tell me all about your visit to our sister.”

Sherlock took the offered hand and followed Mycroft, trying to ignore the small seed of doubt that had been planted deep inside him. What would the chances be that his brother decided that a relationship with his doppelganger would be easier than one with the real thing?

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm feeling generous today so there might be a surprise extra chapter tonight... :D


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, an extra chapter for the bestest readers in the world! Given the time zones most of you are in, you'll probably get to read both at once but that just makes it even better!

As soon as Sherlock saw the car pull away, taking his brother to the conference, he was out the door and hailing a cab. His magical cab summoning powers appeared intact and one pulled up alongside him. He gave the address and they made their way through the horrible London peak hour traffic. They finally arrived and Sherlock handed over a few notes and headed for the front door. He had a key, but it was back at Baker Street, so he deftly picked the lock and slipped inside.

The house was quiet, the occupant still asleep. Sherlock crept up the stairs and made his way into the bedroom, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dimness. It wasn’t long before he could make out the shape of a person on the bed and he walked over and flopped himself down onto the empty side.

There was a flash of movement and suddenly the barrel of a gun was pointed at Sherlock’s face. He regarded it calmly, until it was then lowered.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Sherlock,” Mark muttered, sinking back down onto his pillow, and sliding the gun back into place. The MI5 agent squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I only got to bed at 2am; before that, I had been awake for forty six hours. If the next three words out of your mouth are not the ones I want to hear, I swear, I will put a bullet through your brain.”

Sherlock nodded. “I’ll make coffee.”

A hand groped out and squeezed his arm. “You get to live another day.”

Sherlock smirked and headed downstairs, finding his way around the kitchen by memory and making a strong cup of coffee. He took it back up, finding Mark still in bed, his eyes closed. He placed it on the bedside table next to the younger man’s head and then came back around to the empty side, pulled back the blankets, and climbed in.

“By all means, come on in,” Mark grumbled.

Ignoring that, Sherlock shuffled over and curled into a ball at his side, then lay his head on Mark’s chest. He felt Mark stiffen in surprise and tilt his head to peer down at him, his chin pressing against the detective’s curls. “Hey, now, what’s wrong?” he asked, an arm coming round to circle Sherlock’s shoulders.

“I think Mycie is going to leave me,” he said in a broken whisper.

“What? Sher, you can’t be serious. What’s happened?”

Trying not to cry, he told Mark about their conversation last night. “This man seems to be everything Mycroft wants and it would be so much easier for him if they were together,” he finished, sniffling softly.

Mark’s arm had tightened around him and he was rubbing his back in soothing circles. “I think you might be overreacting just a tad, Sher,” he told him.

He shook his head. “It’s obvious Mycie wants him - he even told me he was attracted to him.”

“Because he apparently looks like you. Though how much remains to be seen because I’m sure your fan club would have gotten their knickers in a real twist if there  _ were _ two of you.”

“I don’t think he owns a deer stalker so they probably wouldn’t recognise him,” he muttered.

“I’ve always wondered - have you ever worn that during -”

Sherlock clamped a hand over Mark’s mouth. “If you finish that sentence, I will use your gun to put a bullet through  _ your _ head.”

Mark giggled against his palm, then turned his head to free his mouth. “Sorry, I’ll keep my sick fantasies to myself.”

“You do that.”

“So, I’m guessing you want me to use my clearance to sneak into the conference today, stalk this guy, and report back to you?”

“And this is why we’re friends. Yes, please.”

“Well, I figured you weren’t just here for reassurances and a hug.”

Sherlock’s arms tightened around him. “I may have come for a hug...you’re one of the few people who I feel comfortable enough around to be tactile with.”

Mark ruffled his hair. “You know I’m always happy to give you a hug, Sher. Though, playing Devil’s advocate here, you do know it’s slightly ironic that you’re here to ask me to spy on your brother, who had lunch with an old flame, when you’re snuggled in bed with someone who is - in a very roundabout way -  _ your _ old flame?”

“Shut up,” the detective grumbled. “This is completely different.”

“How so?”

“Because our genitals have never, and will never, touch.”

“This is true. Mr Spurty shrivelled up the minute you climbed into bed with me.”

Sherlock pulled his face back to peer in disbelief at Mark. “Did you just call your cock,  _ Mr Spurty _ ?”

Mark shrugged. “Maybe...why? Do you think that’s why I’m single?” They burst into giggles, and when they finally settled down, Mark shoved Sherlock off him. “Alright, if you want me to play super spy for you, I’d better get going.”

The consulting detective bit his lip, watching him in concern as he got out of bed and searched around for some clothes. “Won’t you need a little more sleep first?”

He gulped down the cup of coffee and shook his head. “I had six hours, I’ll be fine.” He looked over to see his friend burrowing down into the warm spot he’d left behind. “I’m guessing you’re staying here?”

“Mmmm,” he said. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Well I suppose having the incestous lover of my extremely deadly boss in my bed isn’t the strangest thing to have ever happened to me.”

“No?”

“I lead a very exciting life, Sher.” He laughed quietly as the detective waved at him with a sleepy hand. “Enjoy your nap, I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Sherlock heard him leave the bedroom and soon the sound of the front door opening and closing. He burrowed his face against the pillow, feeling much calmer now that he knew he had an ally.

~~~~~~~~~

By the time Mark came back, Sherlock had gotten up and had ransacked his kitchen, looking for items to experiment on. The agent walked in, his face scrunching up as the smell of sulfur hit him. “How about we talk outside?” he suggested, his hazel eyes watering.

Sherlock hurried to follow him outside, eager but also terrified to see what Mark had discovered. “He didn’t see you, did he?” he asked anxiously, as they sat at the small outdoor setting.

“As far as I know, he didn’t. It’s hard to tell with your brother, though. He’s scarily omniscient.”

“I suppose if he had, I’d already have had a text demanding answers.”

“True. I will say this though - your fan club have obviously never met this Landsbury guy because it is fucking uncanny, Sher.” He opened the gallery on his phone and handed it over to the detective.

Sherlock scrolled through the photos, a jumble of emotions warring inside him. Jealousy was still the most prominent - this man had been with Mycroft before Sherlock had even thought about his brother in such a manner. They had shared things, and had a past together that he could never know about. There was also a small hint of satisfaction at knowing that the only reason he’d even had a look in, was because he was a dead ringer for the youngest Holmes brother. The feeling of dread was still there, the possibility that his lover would leave him for someone more socially acceptable. 

Then he came to the photo of Mycroft standing with a small group of people, sipping on tea served in horrible styrofoam cups. Jonathon was amongst the group, and Mycroft’s attention was on a man who appeared to be the French delegate. His doppelganger was gazing at Mycroft in such obvious lust and adoration that Sherlock felt his anger flare. How  _ dare _ this man, this  _ nobody,  _ think that he could look at Mycroft in such a manner? Mycroft Holmes was Sherlock’s and Jonathon Landsbury couldn’t have him!

Mark gently pried the phone from the death grip his friend had on it, removing the source of his anger. “The good news is Mycroft spent more time looking at his phone than at this bloke. I assume you were texting him?”

“How could you tell?”

“Because of the way he smiles every time he gets a text from you, you dolt. I don’t think you have anything to be genuinely concerned about, Sher. Mycroft is so fucking in love with you, it’s not funny. He might be a bit confused right now, but that happens to us all when we run into someone we’ve had sex with. I’m confident he’s not going to do anything with him.”

“I don’t think that’s going to stop this Jonathon from trying,” he half snarled.

“You have a point,” Mark agreed. “But you can’t stop him from trying; you can only trust that Mycroft won’t reciprocate.”

Sherlock scowled but knew there was little else he could do. He stood up from his chair. “I’d better go back to Baker Street,” he said. “Thank you, for your help,” he added, a tad shy.

“You’re most welcome, Sher. But aren’t you forgetting something?”

The detective thought for a moment, completely lost. He hesitantly leaned forward and gave Mark a kiss on the cheek.

“I wasn’t after a snog, you idiot,” his friend said, pushing him away. “I’m talking about the pits of hell you’ve unleashed in my kitchen!” The smell of rotten eggs was still drifting out of the open window.

“Oh, my, look at the time,” Sherlock said, looking at his empty wrist as he’d forgotten to put his watch on that morning. “I really must dash. Bye!” He hurried around the side of the yard and let himself out the gate.

Mark watched him go, and then stood, opening the back door and gagging as the stench hit him. “Fucking bastard,” he muttered, fondly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who shall join me in a happy dance? I know you all love Mark as much as I do, and there will be LOTS more of him to come!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my, did someone leave some smut laying around where just anyone could stumble upon it? Oops!

The screen on Sherlock’s phone darkened and then turned off, and he swiped his thumb over it to wake it up again. He stood looking at the text again, unsure of how to feel about it.

_ There is a dinner tomorrow night for the guest speakers and the organisers which I was thinking of attending since you’re babysitting Rosie. Do you mind? - MH _

His screen darkened once more, and this time he let it sleep as he thought about how to reply. Jonathon Landsbury would most certainly be attending, otherwise he knew his brother wouldn’t be too fussed about going. On the other hand, he knew that Anthea would be there and would stop any romantic advances on behalf of the professor in their tracks. Sherlock didn’t want to act like the crazy, jealous lover and forbid him going, but since he  _ was  _ the crazy, jealous lover it would take all of his willpower to be an adult about it. He eventually formulated a reply and typed it out.

_ I’m sure Anthea has chosen a great venue so you should definitely go - don’t want you missing out. Maybe we can go out somewhere nice on Saturday though? - SH _

It had been an age since they had been out for a romantic dinner. Of course, only  _ they _ knew it was a romantic dinner when they dined out, but they were the ones who counted. To the strangers who saw them, they looked like a couple. To people who knew them, they looked like two brothers enjoying a nice meal. As long as they didn’t share intimate touches whilst out and about, it was fairly safe. Knowing that  _ some _ of the people who saw them thought they were together made Sherlock feel all warm and fuzzy (not that he would  _ ever _ admit that to anyone, even his brother). It wasn’t much, but it was what he could get.

_ Of course - I should have suggested we go out sooner. It’s a lovely idea. Are you sure you don’t mind? - MH _

_ Are you planning on throwing Jonathon on a table and eating him for dessert? - SH _

_ No, most definitely not - MH _

_ Then I’m sure. Perhaps you should skip dessert entirely though and come home and eat ME? Rosie will be asleep by then…-SH _

_ You are delectable. How could I say no to that? - MH _

_ I’m glad you can’t. Will you be home soon? - SH _

_ I’m leaving shortly. Are you already at the house? - MH _

_ Just got here - SH _

_ Shall I stop and get something for dinner on the way home so we don’t have to cook? - MH _

_ Make sure it’s reheatable - I’m planning on jumping you the second you get in the door and it won’t be takeaway I’m eating - SH _

_ I’m sure I have a loaf of bread in the freezer - how does toast sound for dinner instead? - MH _

_ It sounds like you won’t have any detours to make on the way home - SH _

_ My thoughts exactly. I’m leaving now, see you soon - MH _

While he was texting, Sherlock removed his clothes, and then snapped a photo of the lower half of his body, demonstrating just how much he was looking forward to seeing his brother. He sent it, along with the text:

_ I’ll be waiting - SH _

He then went upstairs and gathered some supplies, bringing them down to the foyer. He had meant it when he said the  _ second _ Mycroft was in the door. He then perched his naked butt on the bottom stair and checked his emails, glad it had been a warm day so he wasn’t cold. It wasn’t long before he heard the car pull up and he put his phone on the hall table and stood just behind the door so Mycroft’s neighbour’s wouldn’t get an eyeful when he opened the door.

As soon as the older man was inside, Sherlock pushed the door shut and then slammed Mycroft up against it, his lips claiming his mouth in a fierce kiss. His hands worked at loosening his tie, and undoing the top few buttons on his shirt, and as soon as he had access to Mycroft’s neck, he dropped down and latched on, sucking hard. Mycroft stiffened as he realised the mark would be visible above his collar, but Sherlock reached down to rub at his erection through his trousers and he moaned at the distraction. Sucking harder, he made sure the bruise was a vivid purple before letting go of the skin with a  _ pop _ and then pressing gentle kisses over the mark.

“Was that really necessary?” Mycroft asked wryly.

Sherlock bit gently at his jaw and then kissed his way across to his brother’s ear. “ _ Yes _ ,” he hissed, sucking on his lobe.

Mycroft’s breath caught, and he managed to gasp, “I’m never going to hear the end of it from the Swedish delegate.”

“I don’t care about the Swedish delegate,” the detective muttered, dropping gracefully to his knees and starting to work at the fastening of Mycroft’s trousers. He tugged them down his thighs and then let them drop to pool around his ankles, helping to steady his brother as he kicked them away. He then pressed a kiss to the tip of Mycroft’s cock, and then took hold of his hips and urged him to turn around. Mycroft leaned against the front door, allowing Sherlock to nudge his legs further apart, and then he let out a guttural moan as Sherlock spread his cheeks and ghosted warm breath across his crack. “Oh!”

Using the flat of his tongue, Sherlock licked his way up from the back of his balls, dragging it wetly along Mycroft’s perineum, and finally over his quivering hole. Dipping his tongue back inside his mouth to wet it once more, he then darted it out to lap at his brother’s entrance. Once the outside was nice and wet, he pressed forwards, working the tip of his tongue inside the tight heat. He could feel the resistance of the tight muscle and he worked a finger in alongside his tongue, helping to open him up. He pressed his face in even closer, wanting to be devoured by the musky scent of Mycroft, to merge seamlessly with him until they became entwined together.

Mycroft pushed his arse back, seeming to want him even closer as well, and Sherlock stayed there until the need for air became overwhelming. He drew back, gulping for breath, the sight of the glistening hole making his cock twitch. He picked up the lube from where he had stashed it behind the door, and squeezed a generous amount onto his fingers, spreading it over his cock and then wiping the rest over Mycroft’s entrance. He got to his feet and pressed kisses to Mycroft’s smooth shoulder, his tongue tracing the freckles that were sprinkled over the skin. He took his cock in hand and positioned it correctly, then pushed forward slowly, sinking inside. 

They both moaned softly as he pushed his way further in, and Mycroft turned his head, searching for his mouth. Sherlock kissed him, his tongue licking inside, his brother chasing after his own taste. His arms were wrapped tightly around Mycroft’s middle and his thrusts were shallow, brushing over his brother’s prostate regularly.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft gasped against his mouth.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, pressing open mouthed kisses to his jaw and cheek.

“You feel so good. I need you so much.”

“I  _ always  _ need you, Mycie.” Sherlock reached down and took hold of Mycroft’s leaking cock in his large palm. He began to stroke him with a firm grip, twisting a little at the end the way he knew turned his brother on the most. Pre-come gushed from the tip, slicking his hand and Mycroft gasped at the sensation. 

“So close!”

“Then come for me, Mycie,” he whispered, speeding up his strokes.

Mycroft shuffled his feet back a little, arching his back so Sherlock could thrust in that little bit deeper. He pushed back, meeting the snap of Sherlock’s hips, then rocking forward to fuck the hand circling his cock. He built up a steady rhythm and then his passage clamped down around Sherlock’s cock and he was pulsing into his brother’s hand.

“That’s it,” Sherlock murmured against his ear, milking his orgasm all he could.

Once Mycroft’s cock had stopped spurting, the detective wrapped his arms around his brother once more, and holding him tightly, began to thrust into him with abandon. He lost himself to it, thinking of nothing but the pleasure that was pooling from his balls and up into his stomach, the feel of Mycroft’s soft skin against his, the love that he felt for Mycroft almost overwhelming him. He cried out and emptied himself deep inside the redhead, his legs shaking with the force of his orgasm. He clung to the older man, trying to stay upright, and managed to slip from his arse without hurting him.

Mycroft reached for the box of tissues and began to clean himself up while Sherlock slumped against the wall and slid to the ground. Once he was done with himself, Mycroft crouched down and gently wiped over Sherlock’s softening cock. He pressed a kiss to his nose and then padded down the hall to place the used tissues in the bin. He soon returned, carrying a bottle of water which he handed over after taking a few sips.

“Thanks,” Sherlock said gratefully, drinking down half of it.

“Would you like a shower?” Mycroft asked.

His brother nodded and accepted the hand held out to him, allowing Mycroft to pull him to his feet. Before they headed upstairs, the older man pulled him into a hug and held him close. “You mean everything to me, Sherlock,” he whispered, then kissed his ear and stepped back. Taking his hand, they made their way to the bathroom.

 


	8. Chapter 8

Curse summer and curse the warm weather and curse not being able to wear a scarf. Mycroft walked self consciously through the busy lobby of the convention centre, sure the purple bruise at his throat was glowing like a beacon. He had worn his suit that had the highest collar, and had even found the foundation Anthea had left behind when she had tried to cover his black eye, but his expertise at applying it was lacking and it was still visible. Sherlock had simply smirked at his attempts and then had seen him off with a positively filthy kiss, a promise for what would be in store for him tonight when he got to Baker Street after his dinner. He’d been hard the entire car ride over, and had only just been presentable when he’d stepped out.

He assumed an air of polite urgency, hurrying his steps, hoping that it would be enough to deter the various diplomats from stopping him for a chat. Yesterday had consisted of panel discussions and open forums, but today there were more guest speakers and so at least he would be in a darkened auditorium for most of the day. He headed that way now, making his way inside without being stopped by anyone, and sank gratefully onto a chair in the back corner. He felt like a naughty schoolboy, hiding the evidence of his first sexual coupling from his parents, something he hadn’t actually experienced as a youth. Perhaps when he got Sherlock alone tonight, he would work him until he was right on the edge, and then stop before he was tipped over. Let the git suffer the consequences of giving The British Government a visible hickey.

His phone chimed and he pulled it out, reading through the email Anthea had sent him. He got so caught up in his reply that he jumped when a coffee from the cafe next door was shoved under his nose. 

“Oops, didn't mean to startle you!” Jonathon said cheerfully sinking into the chair to his left. “I know you detest the stuff they serve here so I thought I’d grab you one while I was there.”

“Oh, that’s very kind of you. Thank you.” Mycroft accepted the beverage, taking a sip and hoping the caffeine would kick in soon.

“Will you be at the dinner tonight?” the professor asked, making it sound innocent, but there was definite hope in his voice.

“Yes, I’ll be there,” Mycroft responded as neutrally as possible. 

“Good! I mean, it’s good that I’ll know someone. I mean, I’ve met a few of the others but Amir isn’t attending and the others are just acquaintances so I don't think I’d be able to hold an entire conversation with them even though we all work in similar fields and should have a lot in common but when it comes to small talk I’m not really the best.” He broke off, clearing his throat nervously. “Sorry, I’m babbling.”

“It’s alright,” Mycroft said, kindly. “I don’t think I would want to be stuck in a conversation with some of the people attending tonight. Though you’re lucky it’s not the delegate’s dinner - that was last weekend and it was  _ horrid _ .” He shuddered. He would much rather be in a room with the leaders of two countries at war than do that again.

Jonathon laughed. “Yes, they seem to be a group that think a little too highly of themselves.”

“If only they were more concerned with a positive outcome from this conference instead of stabbing each other in the back.” Mycroft realised how inappropriate that was and glanced around, hoping he hadn’t been overheard. There was no one sitting near them so his gaffe went unnoticed.

When he turned back to the professor, he noticed Jonathon’s eyes were glued to his throat. Mycroft coughed and felt a flush spread across his cheeks at the love bite being noticed, though he was sure Sherlock would be fist pumping the air if he was here. 

The professor’s eyes flickered up and he saw he’d been caught staring. He looked away, and took a sip of his coffee. “Looks like you had an exciting night last night,” he commented in a falsely bright voice.

Was there was  _ right _ way to answer that? “Yes, well, I suppose so.”

“I thought you said you weren’t seeing anyone.” It was just this side of an accusation.

He sighed. “Given my position in the government, Jonathon, I try to keep my private life just that - private. I told you the story that everyone gets told.”

“Has your partner been told the story?” he asked in a harsh voice. “If it’s something you try to keep secret, then they might need to have another lesson on how to not announce it to the world. It’s rather obvious.”

“Yes, well, he was a tad enthusiastic when I got home. He’s knows how displeased I am that he left such an obvious mark.”

Jonathon fell silent, and Mycroft turned his attention back to finishing the email he had been writing. As much as he had understood Sherlock’s motivations, it was making his life more difficult than it needed to be. He considered briefly skipping the dinner so he could go straight home to his brother to reassure him that he had nothing to worry about, but he also didn’t want Jonathon to think he was ashamed of having an affectionate partner. Since his old partner hadn’t actually overtly expressed a desire to rekindle their romance, he also didn’t want to draw attention to the rather obvious disappointment he was displaying. Perhaps if he just tried to act normal, they could move past the awkwardness? Not that he’d been acting normal these past few days…

The lights dimmed as they prepared for their first guest speaker of the day. Mycroft put his phone away and looked over at Jonathon, catching his eye and giving him a small smile, hoping it would placate the man somewhat. There was a pause and then Jonathon gave him a shy smile back. It was the best he could hope for, and Mycroft turned his attention to the stage as the speaker arrived.

~~~~~~

The remainder of the day went well; by the end of the first talk, Jonathon seemed to have gotten over the fact that Mycroft hadn’t been honest with him, and the awkwardness had disappeared. The fact that the man knew that the diplomat was seeing  _ someone _ also seemed to settle Mycroft’s reactions. He could look at him and notice the resemblance to Sherlock, but the number of unfortunately timed surprise erections had dropped down to almost none. The only reason he’d had to sit with his legs closed to hide the bulge in his pants was at lunch, when the elderly lady at the table next to them dropped her fork. Jonathon had quickly jumped up to help her and knelt down to retrieve it from under the table. Seeing him sinking to his knees was so reminiscent of Sherlock’s actions the night before, and it was remembering the feeling of his brother’s mouth on him that really caused the untimely hard on.

At dinner, Anthea had had them seated at a large round table to facilitate conversation, and the various speakers ended up having a lively debate in which Jonathon participated with enthusiasm. When they’d arrived, he had made sure he had gotten a seat next to Mycroft, and the government official had been worried that Jonathon would spend the whole evening only wanting to have a private conversation with him. The professor’s involvement in the discussion did allow  _ Anthea _ to have a private conversation with Mycroft though.

Jonathon appeared to be one of the guest speakers that Lady Smallwood’s PA had organised (Travis was here tonight but Lady Smallwood’s presence had been required for a video call to the States). Due to Anthea staying at the office to manage things whilst Mycroft was at the conference, this was the first time she had met Jonathon Landsbury. Her eyes had widened and she had stared at the man for a good five minutes, obviously trying to decide if her eyes were playing tricks on her or not. As soon as the others were distracted by the debate, she leaned in close to speak in Mycroft’s ear. “This is not a coincidence, is it, sir?”

“What do you mean?” he asked innocently.

“That you know the man who just  _ happens _ to look like Sherlock’s twin!”

There was no point hiding anything from her. “Yes,” he said with a sigh. “I knew him in university.”

“ _ Knew _ him?”

“Fine, you dratted woman! I was involved with him - is that what you wanted to hear?”

She glared at him. “I’m not daft, sir. It’s obvious that you’ve had a relationship with him. No, I’m concerned about the here and now.” Her eyes flickered down to the bruise on his neck and it suddenly struck Mycroft that she would assume it  _ wasn’t _ from his brother due to never having seen an overt mark of their affections before. “Am I going to have six feet of furious Sherlock pounding down your office door demanding answers for your indiscretions?”

For a moment, he was going to reprimand her - that was too far, even for Anthea. But then he thought better of it. Afterall, she was his gatekeeper and she would be the one having to deal with the situation if his brother did storm the castle so to speak. Besides, she had made it perfectly clear where her loyalties lay, and he knew she was asking not to judge him, but so she was prepared for what might happen later. “No, Anthea, you won’t get caught in the middle of a lover’s tiff. My past with Jonathon is that - the past. I was surprised to see him at the conference, and his knowledge will be a valuable asset to Her Majesty, but I have no intentions of a romantic entanglement with him. My heart belongs entirely to another, and as you can clearly see, he has made sure to stake his claim on me.”

Her lips quirked into a smile at Sherlock’s antics, but she quickly wiped it off her face. It looked as if she would let the matter drop, but then her curiosity got the better of her. “Have they met yet?” she asked.

Mycroft shuddered. “Oh, lord no. Sherlock knows the situation of course, but there’s no need for them to ever meet. It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out the truth and Jonathon isn’t daft. I’d rather avoid a scene if I possibly can.”

She suddenly grinned at him. “Pity. If they were both open minded, you could have your mind blown.”

His eyes widened and all of a sudden all the blood in his body rushed south to his cock. She leered at his uncomfortable squirming, knowing he was trying to discreetly adjust his trousers. “You are truly an evil woman.”

She shrugged. ‘“That’s one of the reasons you hired me. Ooh, our entrees are here!” 

 


	9. Chapter 9

The door downstairs opened and Sherlock sat up straight on the couch. He listened closely and identified the footsteps on the stairs as those belonging to Mycroft, not John. His brother hadn’t messaged to say he was leaving but he had obviously left before dessert as promised. He got up as the door to the flat opened and went to greet his brother with a kiss. Mycroft eagerly kissed him back, and for long moments they didn’t say a word, just stood with their arms around each other, mouths moving together. Eventually he broke the kiss, and with one hand cupped Mycroft’s cheek, the other trailing down to the bruise on his throat, fingering over the mark lightly.

“Do you know how many smirks I was the recipient of today?” Mycroft asked him, one of his delicate brows arched above his pale blue eyes.

“I don’t care about the others - I only care that one particular person saw it.”

“Oh, do you mean Anthea by any chance?”

Well,  _ shit _ . He hadn’t thought of that. “Oh. Oh dear.”

“I’m sure it won’t be hard to deduce the conclusion she jumped to?”

“I’m surprised you still have all your skin.”

“She was benevolent and allowed me time to explain.”

“That was nice of her.” Sherlock pressed another kiss to Mycroft’s lips and then took his hand and led him over to the couch. “Are you going to tell me what I really want to know, now?”

His brother sighed. “Yes, he saw it, Sherlock. You did a wonderful job of announcing to the world that I have in fact been lying to everyone I know and I am indeed seeing someone.”

“And you say I’m dramatic?” He rolled his eyes. “A hickey doesn’t mean you’re in a relationship, they could just think you hooked up with someone. As long as  _ Jonathon _ knows you’re in a relationship.”

“Oh, dear God. Yes, yes he does. Happy?”

Deciding a physical response would best serve to demonstrate how happy he was at that, Sherlock swung around until he was straddling Mycroft’s lap and slung his arms around his neck. He pressed their lips together, grinding himself down on Mycroft’s lap as he deepened the kiss. His brother’s warm tongue was soon flicking against his own, and he moaned softly at the sensation. He could feel Mycroft’s erection pressing against his own and he moved his hips so they brushed against each other. One of his brother’s hands tugged at Sherlock’s shirt tails, pulling them from his trousers so he could reach a warm palm under the material and stroke at his skin. 

He’d just decided that they were both wearing too many clothes when the door to the flat crashed open and John Watson stumbled inside, his lips attached to those of a younger woman with candy pink hair. All four people froze as the other couple’s presence was noted.

“Ah, crap - I thought you’d be in bed already,” John told Sherlock.

“It’s okay,” his date told him, her voice slightly slurred with alcohol. She trailed a finger down his shirt in a way she must have thought was seductive. “Perhaps  _ we _ could go to bed instead?”

“I’ve just put Rosie down in your room, so not a great idea,” Sherlock drawled.

“Rosie? Who’s Rosie?” the girl asked.

“My daughter,” John explained. “Since we can’t go to bed, maybe you two could?” he asked his flatmate hopefully.

Sherlock leaned back in towards Mycroft and crushed their lips together, fucking his mouth with his tongue brutally. He pulled back, leaving his brother panting for more, and John and his date staring wide eyed at the two of them. “I think bed is a  _ wonderful _ idea,” he purred at Mycroft.

“Or maybe you could stay there a bit longer?” John’s date’s eyes were dark with desire as she eyed them hungrily. “I’m happy to keep watching that.”

Sliding off Mycroft’s lap and pulling his brother to his feet, Sherlock smiled sweetly at the girl. “Sorry, but he’s all mine. You’ll have to make do with John there.” He tugged on their linked fingers and led Mycroft down the hall to his bedroom, ready for dessert.

~~~~~~~~

Although Mycroft had said he had to spend some time over the weekend catching up on a few things for work, he would have more than enough free time for them to spend some quality time together. Sherlock insisted that that commence by having a lie in together, and so although they had both woken relatively early, they were still in bed an hour later. The lanky detective was lying on his side, one leg hooked over Mycroft’s, and his head on his brother’s shoulder. Mycroft was lazily running his hands through the silky, black curls, enjoying the low rumble reverberating through his chest as Sherlock spoke. “Neither were all that interesting,” he said, speaking about the two clients he’d had the day previously. “I solved one before the man had even left, and the other won’t take me long to figure out, maybe only a couple of hours on Monday.”

“Will you have anything to keep you occupied afterwards?”

Sherlock squeezed him, knowing he was worried he would get too bored. “I think I’ll be okay. Lestrade is bound to have something come up, and if not, there’s a few experiments I’ve been planning on doing that will be quite time consuming.” He angled his head up for a kiss, before settling back down on his human pillow. “We didn’t get a chance to talk much last night. How did your day go? You know, other than the hickey business…”

Mycroft chuckled, and poked at Sherlock’s ribs. “You’re an utter cad, brother mine. I shall never live that down.”

“Who would even dare tease you about it? Can’t you just have them killed?”

“You greatly overestimate my power, dear. The most I can do is glare at them.”

“Now  _ you’re  _ exaggerating. You could do much more.”

“That’s neither here nor there. I’m not the sort to go about casually knocking people off simply because they teased me.”

“Well, you’re no fun,” Sherlock said in a huff.

“I’m terribly sorry. I shall try to go on murderous rampages more often to satisfy your need for fun.”

They giggled quietly together, and Sherlock thought about how much he enjoyed these moments together. They didn’t have to keep up pretenses, they didn’t have to hide their feelings, or be serious all the time. It was not only enjoyable, but it brought him a sense of peace that was missing from the rest of his life. “So, I take it nothing else exciting happened?”

“Unless you count the Belgian delegate getting into a screaming match with the third speaker today about some inane detail that only he thought was important.”

“How have you not died of boredom as yet?”

He sighed. “I’m not sure. At least it was split in two by the weekend - if I had to put up with five days straight, I think I most definitely would have succumbed by now.”

“I suppose I should be grateful you have someone you can have an intelligent conversation with on your lunch breaks.” He tried his best but his voice still came out sounding flat.

Suddenly, Mycroft rolled them, switching their positions so he was hovering above Sherlock. “Sherlock,  _ please _ . Is there anything I can do or say to convince you that you have absolutely nothing to worry about when it comes to Jonathon and I?”

Sherlock chewed on his bottom lip until Mycroft reached out and drew the skin from between his teeth with his thumb.

The younger man was silent for a long time, but Mycroft didn’t push for an answer, allowing him to take his time. It was only when he started to think he wouldn’t  _ get _ an answer that he spoke. “I swear to you, Sherlock, he means nothing to me.”

“I know! I honestly know that. My feelings on this aren’t behaving rationally, Mycie. Perhaps it’s because I trust you, but I don’t trust him? Or maybe it’s just because he’s someone you could be with without question.”

“I disagree on that point. You seem to be overlooking the fact that he very obviously looks like you. How do you think Mummy would react if I brought him along to Christmas dinner?”

Sherlock sniggered. “Probably just as well as if I brought Irene along and said ‘Mummy, this is my girlfriend - she beats naked people with whips for a living’. Our parents would be mortified.”

“See, that settles the matter. We shall have to continue our clandestine, incestrous affair in order to not shock our parents into an early grave.”

Sherlock laughed, immediately feeling better. His brother seemed to have that effect on him. He raised his head so he could brush a kiss to Mycroft’s lips, and then pushed back the blanket. “I should let you get your work done so you’ll be well and truly finished before we head out to dinner tonight.”

“Will you allow me to have breakfast first? Or will you crack the whip and make me work?”

“I think I can find enough mercy within me to allow you some small amount of breakfast to give you the energy you’ll need to complete your work.’

“You’re ever so kind.”

“It’s one of my many charms.”

Mycroft smacked him on the arse as he got out of bed and Sherlock yelped, turning to stick his tongue out. His heart felt much lighter and he had a feeling they were going to have a good day together. 

 


	10. Chapter 10

It took a herculean effort, but Mycroft ignored the temptation to throw his pile of work in the bin in order to ravish his brother. Sherlock had not made it easy for him, lounging on the couch, clad in jeans and t shirt, the epitome of casual elegance. Every now and then he would lift his arms from his ‘thinking pose’ and stretch his arms above his head, causing his shirt to ride up and expose his delectable midriff. The temptation to rise from the kitchen table and cross to him, to rub his face against that smooth skin, and lick around his navel, was almost too great to resist. The older man was positive that Sherlock knew _exactly_ what reaction it elicited in his brother, since it was usually accompanied by a small smirk.

He finished reviewing his final report just before midday and closed the laptop with a satisfying _click_. John and Rosie had departed earlier in the morning (his candy pink conquest had left at some stage during the night) and had gone to visit Harry, and Mrs Hudson was away visiting her sister. Barring an unexpected client, or Lestrade with an urgent case, they would be alone for the rest of the afternoon. Mycroft stood, and went to the door of the flat, turning the lock. He then turned, and with deliberate slowness eyed his brother from head to toe. He saw Sherlock’s throat work as he swallowed at the predatory gaze. His eyes widened and his pupil’s darkened as Mycroft stalked across the room to him, his breath starting to come in small pants.

Climbing up to straddle Sherlock’s lap, Mycroft pinned both of his wrists above his head, and leaned down to lick a stripe up the long lines of Sherlock’s throat. The detective moaned and tilted his head, exposing more of his neck for his brother. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, the diplomat started at the base and kissed, licked, and nipped his way up one side, then moved to the other side and did the same. He took his time pressing kisses to that sensitive spot just behind Sherlock’s ear, and then ghosted his breath over his brother’s ear, and sucked the lobe into his mouth.

“I want you, Mycie,” Sherlock whined, arching his back so his pelvis could press against Mycroft’s.

“You’re just going to have to be patient, brother mine,” he replied, increasing his hold on the delicate wrists so Sherlock couldn’t wiggle out of it.

His response was a frustrated growl, and he wriggled his hips, trying to find some friction for his cock.

“Now now, Sherlock. You were acting like a little tart all morning, teasing me while I had to work. It’s _my_ turn now to tease you.”

“Bastard,” he muttered. It turned into a gasp as Mycroft knelt up on one leg so he could insert the other between Sherlock’s legs, pressing his thigh against his aching cock.

“Perhaps, but I can live with that.”

Mycroft then proceeded to completely take apart his brother, piece by piece. He kissed, caressed, and worshipped the pale body beneath him, his actions achingly slow and never _quite_ enough. A stream of unintelligible words flowed constantly from the detective’s pretty mouth as he writhed beneath Mycroft’s ministrations. By the time Mycroft finally pushed inside him, he was a mewling, begging mess. He cried out as he was filled, his hands clutching at the freckled covered shoulder blades of his brother. Mycroft kissed him deeply, trying to convey just how much he loved him through his actions.

They moved together, in synch; every movement sparking a perfect reaction, every gasp, sob, whimper, and moan met with an answering echo. By the time they were crying out, spilling their release into and over each other, they were sweaty, and sticky, and flushed. They collapsed against each other, limbs tangled, breathing hard. Words weren’t required as they lay together, waiting for their heart rates to return to normal. Once they had both recovered, Mycroft stood and held a hand out to Sherlock. His brother accepted it silently, and they made their way to the bathroom, both in desperate need of a shower now that their desperate need for each other had been satisfied.

~~~~~~~~~

The restaurant was packed as they were shown to their table. A large function was being held at one end, a birthday celebration from the looks of it, and the crowd gathered there was loud and rowdy. Mycroft noticed his brother giving him a worried glance and he gave him a reassuring smile in return.

“We can go somewhere else,” Sherlock said after they’d been given menus and the waitress had hurried off to another table. “You’ve been stuck in a crowd for most of the week - I’m happy to find somewhere quieter.”

He waved away the concern. “It’s fine, Sherlock. The chances of finding somewhere else close by where we can walk in without a reservation are slim. Besides, the busier it is, the less people will take notice of us.”

His brother conceded the point. “True. I still can’t hold your hand like I want to though,” he said with a pout.

Mycroft nudged his leg under the table. “I know. But at least no one will be watching too closely so they won’t notice me fucking you with my eyes.” He enjoyed the hitch in his brother’s breathing at his use of the profanity. He rarely used it, the exception being during sex, and Sherlock seemed to find it rather erotic.

“Oh, God, luckily they won’t see how fucking hard I just got,” the younger man replied.

“Just at that? You’re quite the little slut, aren’t you? Your cock aching for my touch just because I said the word _fuck_ …”

Sherlock closed his eyes and subtly adjusted his trousers. When he opened his eyes, Mycroft could see his pupils were dilated. “Stop that,” he choked out.

Mycroft arched an eyebrow at him. “Why? You seem to be enjoying it; a little verbal foreplay before dinner. Don’t you want to hear what my mouth is going to do to that delicious cock of yours?”

Sherlock’s only response was a bitten off moan.

“What would you do if I dropped to my knees right here? Crawled under the table and pulled out your cock, took it in my mouth where anyone could look over and see? They’d notice the way my head would be bobbing up and down and they’d just _know_ that I would be swallowing your cock down, taking you as deep down my throat as I could, tasting you as you pulsed over my tongue.” He leaned forward, ever so slightly, finding himself getting hard as well. “I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’re such a little whore for my mouth, brother mine, you’d do anything to feel it on you. But it wouldn’t be a chore, would it? Because you’d get off on having people watch, wouldn’t you? To have them know that I’m yours and you are mine, and I’m the only one who ever gets to have you like that, the only one that gets to feel you tremble beneath them, to have my name on your lips as you come. The only one -”

“ _Stop_!” Sherlock cried, crossing his legs under the table and hunching over slightly.

Mycroft smirked, knowing his brother was on the brink of coming in his pants. He was on the verge of being completely evil and continuing just to be a prat, when behind Sherlock appeared the last person Mycroft possibly wanted to see right now.

Jonathon Landsbury.

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

“Mycroft! What a pleasant surprise!” Jonathon gushed, stepping around Sherlock but not actually looking at him. He seemed to only have eyes for the elder Holmes, a wide smile on his face. 

“J...Jonathon,” he stammered. “What are you doing here?” If it had been anyone else, his erection would have wilted in a second. Unfortunately, it gave a confused twitch instead, having both Sherlock and his ex-lover in his eyeline at once. Anthea’s words echoed back at him and he resolutely pushed that thought away, lest  _ he _ come in his pants. Especially with the way the professor was dressed - a slim fitting, black suit, a dark green shirt underneath, open at the collar, his pale throat on display. Almost a mirror image of the way Sherlock was dressed, except his brother was wearing the dark blue shirt Mycroft loved on him so much.

“Amir’s wife came along with him for the conference so I was showing them around. This is my favourite restaurant so we’ve come here before catching a show tonight. We’re sitting just over there,” he said, pointing towards the back. 

“How lovely,” Mycroft managed to say. His mind was whirring, trying to determine what he’d say when Jonathon would inevitably turn and get a proper look at Sherlock. Should he introduce them? Tell Jonathon Sherlock’s name and that they’re brothers? Should he just try and end the conversation and allow the man to draw his own conclusions? It would be obvious which ones he would arrive at. Would Sherlock give the game away with an untimely outburst of jealousy? A quick flick of his eyes towards his brother told him that he was most unimpressed with whom had interrupted them. If looks could kill, forensics would need to be called in to identify Jonathon’s body.

“Marcella hadn’t been to London before so she’s certainly enjoying herself. When you live here you tend to get a bit blase about the place, so it’s nice to see it through the eyes of a tourist.”

“Indeed.”

“I guess I should leave you to it.”  _ Yes, please do.  _ “I’m sure I’m interrupting a romantic dinner.” He turned, and Mycroft panicked, still not having decided what he was going to do. 

But the decision was taken from his hands.

“Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes?” A young girl, probably no more than fourteen was standing off to the side, a woman who was likely her mother encouraging her from two tables over. 

“Yes?” Sherlock replied, almost absently.

“I, I’m a huge fan,” she said, very shyly. “Would I maybe be able to get a photo with you?”

“Oh, um, I suppose that would be okay,” the detective said, looking completely taken aback. The girl stepped over to him and held her phone in front of them, snapping a selfie. She smiled, more confidently this time. “Thank you. I really enjoy reading about your cases. I wish I was half as clever as you.”

Caught off guard by the series of events, Sherlock had been robbed of his usual snark. Instead of a pithy reply, he said instead, “I’m sure you’re clever enough.”

She blushed a deep shade of crimson, and then waved goodbye, and hurried back to her mother, clutching her phone to her chest. The void her departure created was filled with an uncomfortable silence as Jonathon looked between the two brothers, his eyes wide. 

Knowing there was little need for subterfuge now, Mycroft cleared his throat. “Jonathon Landsbury, this is Sherlock Holmes.”

“Your brother?”

“Yes.”

“I see.” His eyes continued to move between them. He cleared his throat and shuffled his feet awkwardly. “Um, well, it was nice to meet you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded his head in acknowledgement but didn’t reply. Mycroft was grateful - the last thing they needed right now was a hostile retort that would do nothing but confirm the suspicions that were rapidly being drawn by the professor.

“I guess, um, I should get back to Amir and Marcella. I’ll see you on Monday, Mycroft.”

“Enjoy your weekend, Jonathon,” Mycroft replied, giving him a tight smile.

The man hurried off, almost tripping over his feet as he did so. Mycroft looked over at his brother, their eyes meeting. “I’m so sorry,” he said, unsure what else he  _ could _ say. Sherlock didn’t reply, just lowered his eyes and toyed with the stem of an empty wine glass. “Did you want to leave?” he asked him softly.

“That might be best,” Sherlock said with a short nod.

Mycroft signalled to the waitress and explained that something had come up and they would have to leave, and they made their way from the restaurant, the eldest brother making sure he didn’t look back. It was busy on the streets, people out on the town for a night out, and they were quickly absorbed by the crowd. They walked for a short while, Mycroft unsure of what would happen next. Sherlock was being very quiet and he couldn’t deduce what was going through his mind right now. 

“That couldn’t have been any more of a disaster,” Sherlock finally said.

“No, no it could not.” Mycroft wanted desperately to reach across and link their fingers, but instead he put his hand on the small of Sherlock’s back, ostensibly guiding him through a large group of twenty somethings. “I can call for the car, if you want?” he offered. “My driver can take you back to Baker Street.”

Sherlock cocked his head. “Why would I want to go to Baker Street?”

“I just thought that perhaps you might not wish to spend the night with me,” he explained, his eyes watching a car attempt to park across the street, not wanting to see the agreement in Sherlock’s eyes.

He felt two fingers brush across his wrist. “You thought wrong,” came the soft reply.

He swallowed hard, and nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He had been sure that his brother would want to be anywhere but with him after coming face to face with his old flame. The relief at being incorrect was diminished by his feelings of guilt at having put Sherlock in that position. He couldn’t even imagine being on the other side of the coin, and he knew it was upsetting for Sherlock. The last thing he wanted to do was to cause his brother pain, but he seemed to be doing nothing else lately. “Should I call my driver to take us back to my house, then?” he asked, expecting that Sherlock would want to go home. “I can make us something to eat there, or we could get something on the way back?”

“Do you mind if we walk back?” his brother asked. “It’s not far and I’m not quite ready to go home yet.”

“Of course. Anything you want.”

Mycroft sent his driver a text, advising him he could clock off for the evening, and then pocketed his phone. They walked in silence, his mind straying to thoughts of what he might encounter on Monday. Would Jonathon pretend nothing had happened and ignore the elephant in the room? Or would he ignore Mycroft altogether, not wanting anything to do with him? There was also the possibility that he would try and oust them to the world, but he hoped his old friend wouldn’t go down that path.

The crowd started to thin as they moved beyond the stretch of restaurants and pubs. They came upon an entrance to a small park and without a word, Sherlock turned and led them through the gate. It was dark, the only light coming from the streetlights on the surrounding roads, but the moon was bright enough that they could easily follow the path. They wound their way under the overhanging branches of a variety of trees, and came upon a park bench. Sherlock sat and reached over and took Mycroft’s hand, pulling him down next to him. “There’s no CCTV cameras in this park,” he said quietly.

“I know,” Mycroft replied, having used the area in the past for meetings he hadn’t wanted his team to know about.

They sat together, their fingers still linked and Mycroft felt himself relax at the contact. He hated that he hadn’t been able to comfort Sherlock directly after their encounter with Jonathon; hadn’t been able to show his affection and love for him to the people around them. The simple act of holding hands was enough to redefine their connection, to link not only their bodies, but their hearts and minds.

“Mycie?” Sherlock asked, breaking the silence.

“Mmmm?”

“How much trouble will you be in?”

“I don’t know. I guess it depends on how he reacts.”

“I don’t want to be the cause of trouble for you.”

“I know you don’t, as I don’t for you. But we both knew going into this that we might face complications such as this. It’s a price I will gladly pay if it means I get to be with you.”

The long fingers tangled with his gave his own a squeeze, and then Sherlock’s thumb started stroking the side of his wrist. “Up until then, I was having a nice time,” he said.

Mycroft laughed. “I’m glad - that had been my intention.”

“You weren’t going to stop, were you?”

“No,” he admitted. “I had just decided I was going to see if I could actually make you come in a restaurant full of people just by talking to you.” He turned to face his brother. “That probably wasn’t very nice of me. In hindsight, although not the optimal outcome, it was probably for the best I didn’t get to carry through with it.”

Sherlock grinned. “It seems to me, brother mine, that you owe me an orgasm.” He leaned forward and brushed his lips across Mycroft’s. “I’d like to collect that now, please.”

 


	12. Chapter 12

“Now?” Mycroft squeaked.

“Yes, now,” Sherlock replied in a purr, kissing along his jaw.

His automatic reaction was to refuse - the risk of being seen was too great. Even if they weren’t recognised, what if they were caught by a passing copper? A public indecency charge would do neither of them any favours and both their names would then get out. But was that risk as big as Mycroft’s mind was screaming at him that it was? There were no cameras, the park was off the beaten path, and it was likely no one would be passing through, and if they did? Well, it was dark and if they were careful, they’d be able to cover themselves up before it was discovered what they were doing. It was much less risky than the dalliance they’d had at Lady Jasmine’s charity ball.

The biggest thing to consider though, was the fact that Sherlock actually  _ wanted _ this. Half an hour ago he’d expected his brother to flee back to Baker Street, but instead he was here, his breath warm in Mycroft’s ear, and a hand sneaking its way down to cup his erection. There was no doubt that the younger man was still experiencing some form of jealousy, but from the love bite he’d left two nights ago, and his actions now, it appeared his reaction to that emotion was pure possessiveness. The best thing to do was to allow Sherlock to claim him and be claimed.

His decision made, Mycroft turned his head so their lips met, his tongue slipping inside to tangle with Sherlock’s. He let his hand drop down until he was unzipping Sherlock’s trousers and once he’d worked his brother’s cock free, he broke the kiss and slid from the park bench. He ignored the feeling of the damp grass soaking the knees of his own trousers, running his fingers lightly over the shaft. The tip was sticky from the pre-come from their restaurant venture, and he sucked it into his mouth, lapping away at the skin until it was clean. More pre-come pulsed from the tip and he eagerly drank it down, one of his hands fondling the heavy sack below. 

“You have no idea how hot that looks,” Sherlock said from above. Mycroft tilted his head back so he could look up, seeing his brother looking down at him, watching. The full moon was behind him, causing Sherlock’s hair to glow with a halo, and he looked much like an angel, fallen to earth. He often appeared as such in Mycroft’s memories, but he was a real life angel at this very moment.

An angel who had obviously been kicked out of heaven for being an impatient git.

He had grabbed Mycroft’s head and thrust up into the tight heat of his mouth, his cock hitting the back of the older man’s throat unexpectedly, making him gag. He glared at his brother, who gave a devilish grin, and then just because he could, he relaxed his throat and swallowed Sherlock to the root.

“ _ Fuck _ !” the detective moaned, and if his mouth wasn’t full, Mycroft would have smirked at the sheer need in his brother’s voice.

He continued to take him as deep as he could, sliding Sherlock’s length across his tongue, until the need for air became too great. He pulled back just far enough to breathe, and then took him straight back down. He could feel Sherlock’s legs trembling beneath his touch, and he knew at this pace he wasn’t going to last long. That wasn’t a bad thing considering their location, so he gave no quarter as he continued to blow his brother.

“Fuck, Mycie, I’m close,” Sherlock gasped, and then he was coming with a grunt, salty liquid flooding the back of Mycroft’s mouth. 

Licking his brother clean, Mycroft then tucked him back into his trousers and rejoined him on the bench. Sherlock was slumped across it, looking boneless, a silly grin on his face. “Consider my debt paid,” the older brother whispered, giving him a kiss on his cheek.

“Aren’t you going to have some fun?” he asked.

“No, I’m happy to wait until we’re back in the comfort of our bedroom.”

Sherlock nodded, accepting his decision. He twined their hands back together and they sat for a while in silence, just enjoying the warm evening. Then Sherlock’s stomach gave a loud growl, and Mycroft pulled him to his feet. “Come on, let’s get back home and feed you.” They held hands until they reached the perimetre of the park, and then with a regretful squeeze, they let go. Mycroft hated the distance that suddenly appeared between them, feeling as wide as an ocean, even though they were barely a foot apart. He longed for some kind of contact between them, and he subconsciously hurried his steps, the quicker to get them home. Not for the first time did he lament the archaic laws that still existed in England, preventing them from being openly together. He couldn’t complain too much though, since he’d never expected his brother to return his feelings so at least behind closed doors they could express their love for each other. 

The townhouse came into view, and Sherlock’s strides grew even longer. Mycroft glanced over at him, and Sherlock met his eyes, smiling widely at him. It seemed his brother was feeling the same sense of urgency to get to a safe place so they could be alone together. Warmth spread through him as he was completely infused with a sudden and overpowering surge of love for the amazing man who walked at his side. 

As soon as the door closed behind them, they fell into each other’s arms and didn’t part until the next morning.

~~~~~~~

“I think you’re being completely unreasonable,” Sherlock said, pouting behind his cup of coffee.

“It’s her birthday, Sherlock. Of course there will be other people there.”

“We could just go and have dinner with her and Father by ourselves.”

“It’s her seventieth - she wants to celebrate with a big party. You can’t get out of going, Sherlock.”

He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like  _ “Codswallop,”  _ but Mycroft ignored it, and finished plating up scrambled eggs for them. They’d been woken by the call from Mummy that morning, having had a later lie in than usual. It would be more accurate to call the meal he had cooked brunch rather than breakfast, but since they’d skipped dinner last night in favour of falling into bed, they both needed something substantial.

“I assume we’ll be gone for a couple of days?” Sherlock asked as he accepted his food.

“Yes, she’s going to need help to set up and I promised we’d help.”

“Will you even be able to get time off work?”

“Contrary to popular belief, I am not actually a slave to Her Majesty. I accrue leave just like everybody else, Sherlock, and I’m entitled to use it.”

“But you hardly ever do.”

“Which just means I have a lot saved up.”

“Would you be able to get an extra day or two off?”

“I don’t see that being a problem. I’m guessing you want all of us to visit Eurus together?”

He nodded. “It’s been a little while since all five of us have been together.”

“I think that would be nice.” His phone chirped and he opened it, finding a message from Anthea.

_ Are you at home, sir? - Anthea _

_ Yes. Is everything okay? - MH _

_ I’ll be there in half an hour - Anthea _

“Anthea is on her way over,” he said, frowning at the messages.

“Is something wrong?” Sherlock asked, swallowing a large mouthful of egg.

“I’m guessing so, since she’s contacting me over the weekend, but I can’t think of what it would be. Normally she would call and we’d meet at the office.”

“Maybe it’s a private matter?”

“Perhaps, but I still don’t understand why she didn’t just call.” He shook his head, telling himself he would worry about it when she got there. “I’m going to go and have a shower,” he told his brother.

“But you’ve hardly touched your food!” Sherlock protested.

“I can warm it up later. It’s hardly appropriate for Anthea to see me like this.” He gestured to his stubble, mussed hair, and pyjamas.

“I doubt she’d care.”

“Yes, well I do.” He dropped a kiss onto the top of Sherlock’s head and headed upstairs to the bathroom. After a quick shower, he shaved, and then debated over what to wear. If she had called him, he would have gone for a suit since he’d likely have to go to the office. Instead, she was coming to them. He didn’t want to start the day in ‘work mode’ so he dressed in a pair of chinos and a polo shirt, knowing he could always change into something more professional if he was required at the office. 

He heard voices as he headed back down to the kitchen; the Sunday traffic had been kind to his assistant. She was talking quietly with Sherlock when he entered and he could tell his brother had tried to get out of her what the problem was but hadn’t succeeded. 

“Anthea,” he greeted her. “Did my brother offer you a cup of tea?”

She shook her head. “No, I don’t need one.”

“But do you want one?” he asked, a smile on his lips.

Her face remained serious. “It might be best if you sit down, sir.”

His forehead crinkled as he regarded her, noticing her stiff posture and the tension in her shoulders. Whatever news she had, Anthea was  _ frightened _ . Instead of arguing, he pulled out the chair next to Sherlock and sat, gesturing for her to take a seat as well. “What’s wrong, Anthea? What’s happened?”

He was immensely grateful he hadn’t eaten much, because the words she spoke next made him want to be sick.

“Elliott Hunter has escaped from Baskerville.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is with these cliffhanger endings lately??? I may require an exorcist as it appears I have been taken over by the devil :P


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To make up for being so horribly evil lately, I thought I'd start a new tradition and make Sundays Double Chapter day! And I'll even post them at the same time! So from now on, even if the first chapter finishes on a heart stopping cliffhanger, you'll find out what happens right away :)

Sherlock sat at the table, shocked. He had never pushed Anthea or Mark for details on what had happened to Elliott after the man had assaulted Mycroft; he just trusted that he would be dealt with accordingly. He had disappeared and after a while, Mycroft seemed better, and Sherlock had never thought to raise the matter with him. He still remembered the heart-stopping fear he had felt when he’d heard his brother whimper through the door, bursting through it to find Mycie drugged, and at the mercy of the man he had trusted for so many years. He never wanted to see his brother so broken again, and so he had never broached the subject with him.

That wasn’t to say he hadn’t been curious as to what had happened to the man. Elliott was an experienced MI5 agent and they would not have been able to just dismiss him without fear of him coming after Mycroft and finishing what he’d started. They also wouldn’t have been able to imprison him in a regular facility without the truth being exposed (Mycroft had wanted as few people as possible to know about the attack so he wouldn’t lose the impact The Iceman persona had on everyone), or without him escaping. 

Baskerville made sense. It was a top secret facility, with high levels of security, and the need for subjects to be exposed to various experimental procedures who wouldn’t exactly be missed if things went wrong. But something obviously had gone wrong…

“When?” Mycroft asked Anthea, a faint tremble in his voice. Sherlock reached out and took his hand. 

“I received word from Major Barrymore just before I messaged you. Elliott was discovered missing from his cell this morning when he was taken his breakfast. They conducted a thorough search of the entire grounds but he was not to be found.”

He nodded. “I see.”

“I’ve already got people on it, sir, searching for him. I’ve also increased your security so there will be a minimum of six men patrolling your house and the flat at Baker Street whenever you’re in residence. I know it will make things a little harder for you and Sherlock, but I believe it’s necessary.”

“Thank you,” he said. The fact he hadn’t argued confirmed that Sherlock was missing something. 

“Mycie, what exactly is going on?” he asked. “I can understand you being shaken that he escaped, but six body guards seems a little excessive, doesn’t it? If I’m with you at all times, and John when we’re over there.”

“No!” Mycroft cried. “Until he is caught, I won’t be going to Baker Street, Sherlock. I won’t expose Rosie to any harm.”

Though he was touched at his concern for the child, Sherlock still wasn’t understanding the issue. “I get that he’s probably coming after you and he has a grudge, but we’re more than a match for him.”

“Not anymore,” his brother muttered.

The detective’s eyes flew up to meet Anthea’s and he caught the fear behind them. “What the hell did they do to him at Baskerville?”

“We don’t have all the details,” Anthea began to explain. “Barrymore was given permission to use Elliott in any human trials he required him for. The scientists there have been working on developing certain enhancement drugs to give to soldiers to increase their performance, strength, and stamina.”

“You’re telling me they turned him into fucking Captain America?” he snarled.

He could tell Anthea wanted to snap back at him, but restrained herself as she knew how worried he was for his brother. “No, Sherlock, nothing  _ quite _ as science fiction-y as that.”

“But they’ve made him stronger than he already was? Strong enough to escape from  _ Baskerville _ ?”

“As I said, we know he was partaking in those trials, but we don’t know for sure which exact ones he was exposed to. It’s obviously highly classified, and Barrymore refuses to speak about it over the phone.”

“As he’s right to do,” Mycroft added.

“To get details, you’ll need to go to Dartmoor and speak to the major in person.”

“We’ll leave now then,” he declared.

“I can’t leave now, Sherlock,” Mycroft told him. “I still have two days of this conference to attend and it’s much too important to miss because of a personal matter.”

“ _ What? _ How can you say this isn’t important?”

“I didn’t say it isn’t, but it doesn’t trump the conference. We’ve been working towards this for a year now, Sherlock. I’m not going to miss the rest of it to get answers that won’t change anything. We’ll head up first thing Wednesday morning.”

He glared at his brother, wanting to argue, but knowing that in this he had to follow Mycroft’s lead. “Fine, on two conditions.”

The older man sighed. “And what would they be?”

“Mark is added to your security detail but he doesn’t just patrol the perimeter - he’s inside with us.”

“I was going to suggest that anyway,” Anthea told him.

“Done,” Mycroft agreed. “What’s your second condition?”

“Mark and I accompany you to the remaining days of the conference.”

“Sherl-”

“No, Mycie,” he cut off his objection. “This is non-negotiable.”

His brother raised an eyebrow, looking almost like his old self. “Is that so?”

“Sir, it makes sense,” his PA said. “I agree with Sherlock on this one.”

He looked between the two of them, and Sherlock silently thanked the stars that Anthea was on his side in this. “I can see there’s no point in fighting both of you on this,” Mycroft said, giving in.

“I refuse to take any risks when it’s your safety at stake,” Sherlock told him. “I’m sure Anthea feels the same way.”

“Oh, I know she does.” Mycroft looked fondly at the brunette. “Fine, but you are absolutely forbidden to interfere with anything that happens at the conference, brother. You will blend into the wallpaper and if you so much as put a finger out of line, I will make you leave. I’m completely serious - no matter who speaks to me, or how much you want to butt in.”

Anthea looked between them. “What am I missing?”

“Last night at dinner, Sherlock and I ran into Jonathon Landsbury.”

“Oh,” she said. “Ohhhhh.”

“Yes, things got awkward rather quickly,” he agreed.

“Do you need me to do anything?” she asked, deliberately vague which told Sherlock that  _ anything _ could be something very nasty.

“No, thank you, Anthea, _I will_ _handle it_.” This last part was directed at Sherlock.

“Fine,” he grumbled. “But if he gets narky and looks like he’ll turn violent like John did-”

“Then I shall have security escort him out,” Mycroft finished.

“I’ll start making arrangements,” his PA said, already typing on her Blackberry. “Do you need anything delivered? It’s probably best if you remain here as much as you can, and avoid going out in public. I’ll arrange for groceries or a meal to be dropped off if you require?”

“No, I believe we are adequately provisioned to survive the night, thank you.”

“Right, well the extra security are already in place - they arrived shortly after me. I will get Mark over here ASAP, and then I’ll start to shuffle your calendar to allow for a trip to Dartmoor.” She looked up from her phone. “Is there anything else you require?”

“No, I believe that will be all.”

“I’ll leave you to the rest of your Sunday then,” she said with a small smile.

“Thank you, Anthea. As per usual, you have truly gone above and beyond. It is very much appreciated.”

“My pleasure, sir. Sherlock,” she said, nodded to him, and then she was gone.

Sherlock turned in the chair and pulled his brother close, holding him tightly. “Are you okay?” he asked quietly.

Mycroft sighed against his shoulder. “I suppose. It’s a bit of a shock, but I’m sure we will deal with it.”

“Seriously, Mycie - I’m worried about you.”

“There’s no need, love,” he replied, kissing his brother’s cheek. “I came to terms with what he almost did to me a long time ago. I refuse to live in fear of what he will try to do if he  _ does _ come after me. And really, we don’t know for sure that he is.”

Sherlock didn’t share this sentiment but he kept his opinion to himself. In his mind, you didn’t escape from a top secret facility where you were subjected to painful experiments without going after the man responsible for putting you there. All he could do was everything in his power to keep Mycroft from harm. “Since we’re housebound, how about we head back to bed and I do my best to distract you?”

“Mark will be here shortly.”

“It’ll be a very  _ quick _ distraction.”

The older man laughed and squeezed him tightly. “I love you so much, Sherlock. I hope you know that.” He kissed him soundly on the lips and then stood up from the chair. “Come on then - if we don’t have much time, we don’t want to waste a second of it.”


	14. Chapter 14

There was an undercurrent of worry buzzing amongst the delegates and speakers at the conference on Monday as increased security measures were implemented. Instead of just showing their ID, they were now required to undergo a full security check, much like at an airport. Due to the size of the centre, Anthea and Sherlock insisted that additional security personnel be stationed inside as well as outside, and they stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the academics and politicians. Rumours began to circulate as to what threats had been been received to justify the new measures before the first speaker of the day (Jonathon) had even commenced. 

People began to trickle into the auditorium and Mycroft took a seat. Because his old flame was presenting, Mycroft was allowing his two personal bodyguards to sit with him, and they flanked him with Sherlock to his left and Mark to his right on the edge of the isle. He hadn’t run into Jonathon as yet and he’d given very little thought to what he would say as his focus had been elsewhere since he’d gotten the news of Elliott’s escape. The situation with his attacker may have claimed his attention presently, but his relationship with Sherlock was his number one priority and he would do whatever he needed in order to protect it. He just hoped that drastic measures would not be required.

The lights dimmed but instead of Jonathon, Anthea appeared on stage. The crowd automatically quietened, most of them knowing who she was and that whatever she had to say was pertinent to the new security process. “Good morning,” the PA began. “As I’m sure you’ve all noticed, security around this building has been increased. I would like to assure you that we have received no threats against this conference and this is purely a precautionary measure. We run regular risk assessments and hold ourselves to the highest standards to ensure the safety of everyone in attendance. The new procedures are simply to uphold those standards, and I would like to reiterate that there have been no threats made against this gathering. Please do not worry, or concern yourselves about it, as I can tell many of you are. My colleague, Travis and I will be in the lobby at the end of this presentation to answer any further questions you may have. For now though, I shall leave you in the very capable hands of Jonathon Landsbury.”

She left the stage and Mycroft felt a surge of gratitude for the woman. She and Travis were going to be mobbed during the break by worried delegates but she had happily taken on that responsibility so her boss would be left alone. He didn’t know what he had done to deserve Anthea in his life, but he was immeasurably grateful that he had her.

Jonathon came onto the small stage then, and he felt Sherlock stiffen at his side, a small hiss escaping his lips. Mark had been scanning the crowd, the entry and egress points, and the dark corners of the room, his eyes not stopping. “Don’t let Landsbury be your focus, Sher,” he murmured. “We’re here for another reason.”

A glance at his brother showed him looking suitably chastised, and taking a gamble that the darkened room would hide the gesture, Mycroft reached out and linked their pinky fingers together. He felt more than saw the way Sherlock relaxed at that simple touch, and then his brother pulled his gaze from his doppelganger on the stage and put his powers of observation to use on the room at large.

“So, we’ve had quite an exciting morning so far,” Jonathon began, “And it’s not even nine o’clock.” There was a few titters from the crowd at this. “However, it leads very nicely into what I’m going to discuss with you this morning. My first talk looked at the basics of Security Management Techniques, but today I’m going to go into greater detail. I’d love to say these developments were a deliberate way to enhance my talk, but unfortunately I can’t take the credit.” His eyes met Mycroft’s briefly, and the diplomat knew he had recognised Mark’s actions as those of a bodyguard. Jonathon alone seemed to have figured out that a threat  _ had _ been recognised, but it was in regards to Mycroft, not anyone else. “Of course, that won’t stop me from taking advantage of them to help me make some dazzling points.” The crowd laughed, the tension lifting, and Jonathon jumped straight into the meat of his speech.

He was as engaging and as entertaining as he was previously, and despite the circumstances, Mycroft found himself enjoying the talk immensely. He even found himself laughing at Jonathon’s jokes, apparently  _ too _ much, as Sherlock let his hand drop down to Mycroft’s thigh where he gave him a little pinch. He turned to glare at Sherlock, but his brother was already looking away, focusing on the main entry. Mycroft let his hand slip down and he squeezed his brother’s fingers in a silent apology, then rested two fingers on the pulsepoint on his delicate wrist, leaving them there to maintain contact.

Too soon for Mycroft’s liking, Jonathon’s time was up and he clapped along with the rest of the crowd. As soon as the professor had left the stage, people were on their feet and pushing out the door, wanting to get answers from the two PAs who were waiting to be ravaged by the crowd. Once the auditorium had emptied, Mycroft and his two minders rose and made their way to the exit. “I’m going to go and get a cup of tea,” he told them.

Sherlock made to follow him but Mark caught his arm. “Let’s wait over there, Sher.”

“Why?” the detective demanded. “We can’t protect him from over there.”

The agent gave him a steady look, and Mycroft was amazed at how his brother wilted under it. “We will still be able to see him, Sher, and if anything happens, we’re close enough that we’ll get to him in time. But Mycroft doesn’t need a babysitter every second of the day. Every man needs a few moments to himself without someone hovering next to him.”

Mycroft gave Mark a smile, thankful he understood. Sherlock hadn’t left his side at all the day previously and the older brother just needed a moment or two to gather his thoughts without the scrutiny of those blue-green orbs. 

Sherlock pouted but acquiesced. “We won’t be far away,” he assured his brother and then stalked off to the corner Mark had indicated.

The tea and coffee station was deserted, so he had a blissful few minutes to himself as he waited for his tea to brew. Once he was done, he found an empty seat not far from where his brother was watching over him, and sat to check his emails. He felt relaxed for the first time since Anthea had broken the news yesterday morning. He loved his brother dearly, but it was a little exhausting having Sherlock hovering over him constantly. He recognised the irony of course - for years it had been  _ him _ watching over Sherlock - but that didn’t negate the fact that the detective’s nervous energy seemed to sap his own reserves. 

A few minutes later, he was replying to an email from the PM when he caught sight of Sherlock approaching in his periphery. “For goodness sake, Sherlock, I don’t need my hand held whilst replying to emails,” he said without looking up.

“That might raise a few eyebrows,” came the reply.

Mycroft’s eyes flew up to see that it was in fact Jonathon standing next to his chair. He looked across to see Sherlock watching with a scowl on his face, but Mark had obviously convinced him to stay put. “Jonathon,” he said, his voice wary. “I didn’t know if I’d be speaking to you today.”

The professor dropped into the chair next to him. “And why is that, Mycroft? Is it because the increased security measures and armed guards about the place are here to protect you and you didn’t think they’d let me near you? Or is it because I’ve discovered that your brother and I look more like brothers than you do, which has led me to ponder exactly why you were attracted to me back in uni?”

He deliberately put his phone away so he could give the man his complete attention. Jonathon didn’t sound angry, or disgusted, just curious, but Mycroft could see the hold on his control was flimsy under the surface. His reaction would all depend on how Mycroft responded. “The latter,” he replied honestly. There was no point lying since the professor had already worked out the truth, but he was also not going to make apologies or beg for forgiveness. 

“I take it I was some kind of substitute?” he asked, a hint of bitterness to his voice.

“The first time, yes. But I wouldn’t have continued our liaison if I didn’t find you, yourself appealing,” he admitted, having recognised the truth of Sherlock’s deduction. 

“I see. And how long have you two -?” He waved vaguely, obviously unable to bring himself to say the words out loud.

“It’s recent. Less than a year.”

“And does anybody know?”

“Only a few trusted confidantes.” He breathed hard and then jumped to the crux of the matter. “Can I count you amongst them?”

Jonathon chewed on his lip as he considered this, the action so reminiscent of Sherlock’s own nervous tick that he had to look away. He glanced over to where his brother stood, one of Mark’s hands on his arm, preventing him from coming over. “You’re in danger, aren’t you?” he said instead. “I mean, serious trouble.”

Mycroft nodded. “A very real threat has been identified, yes.”

“Is that why he’s here?” He tilted his head in the detective’s direction but didn’t look at him.

“Yes. Until we’ve neutralised the threat, he’s vowed to not let me out of his sight.”

“I see.” He chewed some more, the skin of his bottom lip turning white from the pressure. Finally, he looked up and met Mycroft’s eyes. “I’m not going to tell anyone, Mycroft. You can trust me to keep my mouth shut.”

He breath a sigh of relief. ‘Thank you.”

“Can I ask why though? Out of all the people in the world, why him? Why do you want to be with your brother when it goes against everything we’re taught?” There was a desperation behind his questions, a need to know, to understand why he would never be able to compete, to have the man in front of him.

Mycroft sighed. “Because he is the other half of me, Jonathon. As cliched and sappy as it sounds, he really does complete me. He makes me a better man, he makes me strive to  _ be _ better. He also understands what it’s like in my head; his brain works the same way. He can make it quiet, even if it’s just for short periods of time.” He smiled as he thought of Sherlock. “Above all else though, I love him, with every piece of my being. And he loves me. There is so much hate, and anger, and sorrow in this world, Jonathon, but I am surrounded by his love and I will never let anyone take that from me. It may be us against the world, but I can guarantee you, if push comes to shove, the world will come out second best.”

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This includes more Sappycroft but I don't think any of you mind overly much ;-)

“You should probably stop trying to set fire to him using only your brain if you don’t want to attract undue attention,” Mark suggested.

“Everyone is gathered around Anthea and that imbecile who works for Smallwood - no one is going to notice the expression I have on my face.”

“I dunno - it’s pretty fierce.”

“That’s because I hate him,” Sherlock snarled.

“Well, you might want to tone it down a bit, before people start wandering back this way.”

Sherlock huffed out a breath of annoyance, but did try and follow the instruction. He hated the fact that even though this man had obviously figured out the truth behind their relationship, he couldn’t be with Mycroft while he was confronted with it. It made a small part of him feel like he was a shameful secret, to be hidden away by his brother. Of course he knew that it wasn’t true, that Mycroft wasn’t ashamed of him, but he resented not being able to be open about their relationship.

His eyes narrowed as he saw Mycroft smiling. “Why is he smiling?” he growled. “How can anything they’re discussing be worthy of a smile?”

The MI5 agent stared at him. “You really are so fucking daft sometimes, Sher.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded, feeling completely off footed.

“That’s the smile your brother gets when he’s talking about you, you dolt.”

“He...he has a smile specially for me?” he asked, utterly surprised.

“Of course he does. You’ve got one too when he’s on your mind.”

He remembered his sister’s words - _Your face changes when you think of him. It goes kind of stupid._ “Oh.”

Mark shook his head. “What the hell am I going to do with you two?”

Sherlock didn’t bother to answer the obviously rhetorical question, and went back to watching his brother interact with the professor. It appeared to be over however, with Jonathon nodding to Mycroft and standing, throwing a glance at Sherlock before heading over to the tea and coffee station. Mycroft stood as well, but walked in the opposite direction to where Sherlock and Mark were watching. “So?” Sherlock asked once he’d joined them.

“He’s not going to say anything,” the diplomat replied, a satisfied look on his face. “Plus, he’s agreed that he’ll still be happy to work with me.”

In some regards, it had gone as well as they could have hoped, in others, Sherlock had wished the man would have wanted to never see Mycroft again. He supposed that was expecting a little too much from the universe.

“What next?” Mark asked.

“The final talk of the conference is commencing shortly, then we’ll break for lunch. After that we head into the final rounds of meetings and debates, which will see us through till the close tomorrow afternoon.”

“Dull,” Sherlock moaned, not interested in the silly conference.

“No one is holding a gun to your head, Sherlock,” Mycroft snapped, his patience stretched to the limit. “You don’t have to stay you know.”

The detective pressed his lips together, holding back a snarky retort. He knew that Mycroft had not only been stressing about Elliott, but the ridiculous situation with Jonathon. There was only so much he could take right now. “Sorry,” he said softly, dropping his eyes in an uncharacteristic show of submission.

Mycroft took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. He nodded, and gave his brother a small smile. “It’s alright, Sherlock. I’m sorry I snapped.”

He shrugged, suddenly just wanting the day to be over. He wanted to be able to hold Mycroft and kiss him, without the need to hide it. He wanted to express his concern without worrying he was overstepping in public. He wanted to be able to talk to Mycroft without fear of being judged for standing too close or acting too familiar. More than anything, he just wanted contact with his brother; simply to hold his hand would be enough.

Sherlock was suddenly just so very tired.

Mycroft noticed, of course. His eyes took in the slumping of his shoulders, the downcast eyes, and the sudden air of defeat surrounding him. “Will you excuse us for a moment?” he said to Mark, and then touched Sherlock’s elbow and guided him down the deserted hallway that led to the bathrooms. He pushed open the door to the disabled cubicle and ushered him inside.

“What are we doing?” Sherlock asked, his voice flat and lifeless even to his own ears as his brother locked the door.

Mycroft crowded him up against the wall, and lay a palm against his cheek. “I think you’re in dire need of this,” he murmured, kissing him gently.

Sherlock turned his head, breaking the kiss. “We can’t take risks like this,” he told him, refusing to look at him. “Someone might see, Mycroft.”

He heard the small catch in his brother’s breath at the use of his full name. Sherlock hadn’t used it whilst they were alone since they’d gotten together. “I know you’re struggling with all of this right now, Sherlock, but please don’t push me away,” he almost begged. “I need you so much right now and I can’t handle it if you’re going to distance yourself from me.”

He finally met his gaze. “Don’t you understand that the only reason I’m pushing you away is because I want you so fucking much? I’m worried I’m going to take hold of you and never let go, damned who sees!”

“And you don’t think I feel the same way? Having you standing so close but unable to touch? The only reason I’m not falling apart at the seams is because we’re in this together, Sherlock. If I don’t have you with me, what point is there in going on?”

His eyes closed, and he wrapped his arms around his brother’s waist, burying his face in the crook of his neck. “I’m sorry, Mycie. I know I’m being selfish and horrible, and I’m trying to be there for you but I’m just so tired and it’s so fucking hard.”

“I know, love, I know.” Mycroft hugged him close, one of his hands cupping the back of his neck, softly stroking the hair on his nape. “I appreciate you being here with me so much, even though I know how hard it is for you.”

“I promise, I’ll try to do better. I just...need a moment.”

Mycroft pulled back and gave him a gentle smile. “Take as long as you need. But while you’re taking it, do you mind if I get my kiss now?”

Sherlock laughed and nodded. “I think that can be arranged.”

~~~~~~~~~

All three men were exhausted by the time they got back to Mycroft’s that evening. There had been a false alarm when a burly, blonde man had been caught trying to sneak into the conference, but it turned out that he was the paramour of the Dutch delegate, hoping to sneak in and surprise his lover. The building had been in lockdown for an hour, and panic had ensued. The work Anthea and Travis had done that morning to allay any fears had gone out the window and it had taken an age to get the final meeting back on track.

Sherlock could tell that Mycroft was shaken by the incident, even if he would never admit it and he had hurried him from the building as soon as they called time for the day. He wanted him at home, away from prying eyes as soon as possible. They stumbled through the door, Mark carrying bags of Chinese takeaway the driver had picked up on the way to get them. Sherlock detoured through the kitchen and grabbed three bottles of cider, and then joined the others in the sitting room. Mark handed out containers of food and chopsticks, and they all sat on the couch together, silently eating.  

Once the meal was done, Sherlock stood and cleared the rubbish away to the kitchen. He returned to the sitting room to find the television had been turned on to some random comedy show to provide background noise as neither man was watching it. Mark was on one end of the couch, sipping his cider, and Mycroft was at the other, staring into space. Sherlock plonked himself down in between them, twisting around so he was lying with his head on Mycroft’s lap and his legs slung across Mark.

“Comfy?” the MI5 agent asked, his voice full of the the fond amusement he often used for his friend

“Very,” Sherlock replied, shuffling around a little to get himself more settled. One of Mycroft’s hands came down to card gently through his curls, and he smiled to himself as he noticed his brother relax slightly at the familiar motion. It was what he’d intended, and he hoped it helped them all to unwind. Mark picked up the remote and changed the channel to a football match, and Sherlock closed his eyes, feeling the tension drain from his own body. He was touching Mycroft, they had a friend and ally with them who was not only keeping Mycroft safe, but from whom they didn’t have to hide, and Jonathon Landsbury knew that he’d never get his grubby mitts on Sherlock’s man.

All in all, it was a good end to a pretty horrible day.

 


	16. Chapter 16

Mycroft shook hands with the final delegate, relieved the conference had finally come to an end, but happy with the outcome they had achieved. They hadn’t come up with any magical solutions to end terrorism, but they had come to an agreement on what stance to take and what issues they wanted to focus on at the next, worldwide conference in Vancouver. 

He looked over to see Mark at the door, but there was no sign of Sherlock. In fact, he hadn’t seen his brother for most of the day. The last he’d seen of him was just after Jonathon had found him on their morning break, with a cup of coffee from the cafe next door as a peace offering. “Since we’re going to be working together a little, I figured it doesn’t have to be awkward,” the professor had said, handing over the cup with a shy smile.

Mycroft had been delighted - the overture wouldn’t only make his work life easier, but he knew if they could remain amicable, there was a higher chance of Jonathon keeping his word and not revealing their secret. He’d looked up to see Sherlock watching them, an unreadable expression on his face, and then he and Jonathon had discussed in greater detail exactly what sort of situations he would be called in to consult for. By the time the morning break was over, Sherlock had gone.

Mycroft headed over to the doorway, giving Mark an apologetic smile. “We’re all done and dusted here. Sorry it took so long.”

The young agent shook his head, his brown curls bouncing a little. “All good here. I’m actually glad I got to observe all of that. It was very interesting.”

“I’m glad you didn’t find it as dull as my brother did. Speaking of Sherlock, I haven’t seen him since this morning. Did he leave?” His voice was steady, and didn’t betray the slight fear behind it. Although he knew he was perfectly safe with the additional security, he had taken great comfort in the fact that Sherlock had insisted on being with him at all times. It seemed the longer he was romantically involved with his brother, the more sentiment got the better of him.

“No, he’s still around. He just did some growing up.” He caught the query in Mycroft’s look. “He obviously has a hard time handling seeing you and Landsbury together, no matter how innocent the situation. He was on the verge of walking over there this morning and throwing his coffee in his face - I was preparing myself to physically hold him back. But he kind of stopped himself, and then after a moment he told me that it would be best if he removed himself from the situation. He’s been annoying the security team all day, analysing their routines and offering suggestions.”

“Oh. I see.” Mycroft seemed to be having mixed reactions to that news. On one hand, he was overjoyed that Sherlock was finding non-destructive ways to cope with his jealousy. On the other, he had quite liked being the object of his possessiveness; as silly as it sounded, he had felt cherished and desired by Sherlock’s alpha male demonstrations. With great effort, he pushed aside thinking about his feelings for now, since he wasn’t sure he felt comfortable dissecting them to learn the reasons behind them. 

They walked through to the lobby, and found Sherlock on his phone, ignoring the scowls being thrown at him by the armed guards nearby. He’d clearly just finished explaining to them yet again how they could be doing things better. Mycroft held back a smile, knowing firsthand how infuriating being on the receiving end of the genius’ rants could be, but unable to resist feeling proud of his brother and his intellect. The detective looked up from his phone when he noticed them approach.  “All done?” he asked in his rumbling baritone.

“Indeed we are. Ready to go home?”

Sherlock nodded, and Mycroft felt a flash of heat at the look in those blue-green eyes. His brother may have distanced himself from the situation today, but there was a promise that tonight he was going to make sure Mycroft knew exactly who he belonged to. The way his heart rate accelerated at that was ridiculous, since he was a strong, capable, man who wasn’t a  _ possession _ \- but dammit, did he want Sherlock to possess him. Mycroft coughed, his throat suddenly dry. “Shall we then?”

As soon as they were in the car, Sherlock’s hand was on Mycroft’s thigh and he sat as close as he could get without being on his brother’s lap. Mark smirked, and looked out the window, giving them as much privacy as he could. Mycroft took Sherlock’s hand and squeezed it, a silent promise of  _ soon _ . 

If they didn’t have company, Mycroft was sure Sherlock would have taken him the moment they got in the door. The foyer was fast becoming the detective’s favourite spot for surprise sex. Instead, the younger man faked a yawn and stretched. “I’m positively exhausted - I think I’ll call it an early night,” he said.

Mark laughed. “Don’t worry, Sher, I know you want some alone time with your brother. If it wouldn’t completely invalidate my being here as security, I’d wear headphones for the next couple of hours, but seeing as I would like to be aware of any threats, that’s not going to happen. I  _ can _ promise I shall stay downstairs until you give me the all clear to head up to bed myself.”

“Sherlock, that’s a terrible imposition to place on Mark,” Mycroft chided.

“Honestly, I don’t mind, Mycroft,” the MI5 agent assured him. “I’ll have my book to read - as I said, I just don’t want my ears to be otherwise occupied.”

“We’ll promise to be quiet,” he said, feeling himself blush. As much as Mark was their most trusted ally, Mycroft was still mortified at him being here whilst Sherlock ravished him. If it weren’t for needing to assuage Sherlock’s fears regarding Jonathon, there was no way he would have even considered doing such a thing whilst they had company.

“I have made no such promises,” Sherlock declared. “Since you know exactly what we’re going to be getting up to, Mark, I see no reason to minimise the sounds of our couplings to protect your delicate sensibilities.”

“Prat,” the man muttered.

“Well,  _ I _ would feel more comfortable if we did,” the eldest brother said, shooting Sherlock a  warning look. 

The detective huffed. “ _ Fine,  _ I promise to keep my screams of ecstasy to a minimum. Can we go upstairs and have sex now?” He turned and leered at his brother. “I’ve been positively dripping all day just thinking about what I’m going to do to you.”

He didn’t think it possible, but Mycroft turned an even brighter shade of red. Mark thumped Sherlock on the arm, and tuned his most fierce look on him. “You’re not making me feel uncomfortable, Sher, all you’re doing is embarrassing Mycroft. Now stop being an arse, and go upstairs before your brother decides keeping me and my book company for the night is the better option.”

He didn't know what magical powers Mark possessed, but Sherlock was suddenly looking contrite; his eyes down and an an apology on his lips. “Sorry,” he mumbled. 

Throwing Mark a grateful look, Mycroft took hold of Sherlock’s hand and guided him towards the stairs. He’d been considering revoking his sexual privilege tonight due to his atrocious behaviour, but Sherlock had redeemed himself at the last minute. He wasn’t  _ entirely _ forgiven however, and still had a lot to make up to Mycroft. The older man was sure that  _ somehow _ he’d come up with a suitable penance. They reached the bedroom and he pushed the detective through the door and onto the bed, standing over him with an evil grin on his face. “Now, brother dear, how shall we begin your punishment?”

 


	17. Chapter 17

The alarm had gone off, but as Mycroft had set it earlier than needed, Sherlock kept him in bed a little bit longer. They were driving down to Dartmoor, even though the train was quicker, as they didn’t want to have to rely on timetables and rental cars if they encountered trouble. Mycroft was a stickler for leaving on time though, so Sherlock knew they couldn’t have as much of a lie in as he’d like. All too soon, his limbs were being untangled from Mycroft’s and he was being ushered into the shower.

Their shared showers were an indulgent pleasure for them both. Mycroft loved to lather up the lean planes of Sherlock’s body, his fingers tracing patterns over the crisscross of scars over his back, stroking tenderly over his stomach, and then he would press reverent kisses to the two scars that were all that remained of the life threatening gunshot wounds he’d suffered. He always felt the need to kiss the mournful look from Mycroft’s face as he gazed upon those wounds, knowing his brother was breaking his own rules and going down the ‘what if’ path. Crowding the older man against the cold tiles of the shower, kissing him until they were both dizzy and hard, then dropping to his knees and sucking his brother till he came, was Sherlock’s favourite part. Worshipping the flesh beneath his hands and mouth, gazing up through the shower spray to see Mycroft looking back at him, love and desire in his eyes, made Sherlock’s heart swell with pure joy. If, even a year ago, someone had told him how deep into sentiment they would both fall, there would be no way he’d have believed them. All it took, it seemed, was a love so forbidden, that not only society, but the law itself was against it.

Once the brothers had finished their shower, it wasn’t long before they were packing overnight bags into the boot of Mycroft’s car, and were ready to leave. Mark spoke briefly to the team leader of the men who would remain stationed around the townhouse whilst they were away, lying in wait in case the ex-agent showed up. Then they were off, making their way south towards Dartmoor.

The further they went from the city, the more tense Mycroft became. Sherlock watched as his grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles were white, and when he lay a hand on his thigh, the muscle beneath was taut. He spoke little, and didn’t touch the tea Sherlock had made for him in a travel mug. The younger man knew that his brother was scared of what they would learn from Barrymore; Elliott had been wily enough to overpower Mycroft before, but being exposed to experimental procedures at Baskerville had most likely made him much more dangerous. It had taken a long time to come to grips with the lack of control he had had during his attack, and Sherlock knew that Mycroft never wanted to be in that situation again. Sherlock himself would do everything he could to make sure his brother was never again faced with such a possibility.

It was just before 10am when they arrived at The Cross Keys Inn, Anthea having made them reservations at the same place Sherlock had stayed when he’d been here previously with John to help Henry Knight.  Billy and Gary were still running the place, and they smiled broadly as they recognised Sherlock.

“Didn’t think we’d ever see you back here, Mister Holmes,” Billy said. “Not that it’s not nice to see you, but I do hope you’re not here to put a dampener on our tourism again.”

Sherlock gave him a tight smile in return. “No, nothing like that, Billy. Just here for business.”

Gary handed over their keys, eying the trio thoughtfully. “Here you go. Two rooms as requested, with a joining door.”

“Oh, we’re not -” Mark started to correct them, seeing the conclusion the couple had jumped to.

“No judgements here, boys,” Billy said with a wink.

“Yes, but you see, it's for security, we’re not -”

“Don’t bother, Mark,” Sherlock told him. “I’m sure they’ll believe you as much as they believed John when he told them we weren’t together.”

The young agent looked as if he was going to protest, but then decided against it. “I guess I should be flattered they think I could catch the attentions of both of you,” he muttered, taking the key to the single room and starting for the stairs.

Sherlock accepted the other key and led a very quiet Mycroft upstairs. They popped their bags down, and then Sherlock drew Mycroft to him, holding him close. “It’s going to be okay,” he said, hoping he could keep that promise.

“I’m sure it will,” Mycroft agreed. He squeezed him tightly and then stepped back, checking his watch. “We’d best be off if we’re to make it to Baskerville for our appointment.”

The detective nodded. The sooner they caught and dealt with Elliott, the better. He hated seeing Mycroft look so...defeated.

Mark was already waiting for them in the hallway, and they headed down to where they had parked the car. Sherlock directed Mycroft towards the facility, the rolling green of the moors as far as the eye could see. They were subjected to a much more thorough ID check than previously - a sure sign the staff at Baskerville were reeling from their recent security breach. Once they had been cleared, they drove in and parked, then headed over to the main entrance where Major Barrymore was waiting for them.

“Mr Holmes,” the man greeted Mycroft, a respectful tilt to his head.

“Major. Thank you for seeing us. This is Agent Mark Reid, of MI5, and of course you know my brother, Sherlock.”

Barrymore’s face darkened a little as he looked at Sherlock, but it cleared and he gestured for them all to follow him. Soon they were in his office, and Sherlock and Mycroft took the chairs, Mark insisting he’d stand by the door.

“Firstly, sir,” Barrymore began, “I’d like to apologise for our breach of security. Although I’d ordered Hunter to be contained under the maximum of security, he still managed to overcome our processes.”

“While I’m not pleased that it has occurred,” Mycroft replied, “I’d rather not waste time chastising you when we could be gathering what information we require to catch him. Which experiments exactly was Hunter involved in?”

“We’ve been running two different programs to look at new ways we can better equip our soldiers. One involves the use of enhanced prosthetics, the other uses modified anabolic-androgenic steroids. Hunter was put in the trial group for the second, seeing as he already had the training and physical strength that would be a prerequisite for being given this treatment.” He handed over a folder, and Mycroft flipped it open. Sherlock read over his shoulder, making sure he kept a socially acceptable distance between his brother and himself. Since they spent so much time around Mark and John, he found himself letting down his guard at times. It wasn’t a huge problem when they were out at dinner, surrounded by strangers, but the Major was aware of their familial ties.

The documents contained the chemical breakdown of what was in the formula, plus reports of how Elliott had reacted and the results of the tests he’d been subjected to. It was rather disturbing. Anthea had assured Sherlock that there was nothing so fantastical about it when he’d accused the government of creating their own Captain America, but looking at the results told him they’d not come far off. He could see the way the pulse in Mycroft’s throat start to flutter as he realised how much more dangerous Elliott was now. Sherlock made a mental note to call Anthea the moment they got out of here and increase his security again.

“And you’ve not been able to track Hunter at all?” Mycroft asked.

“Unfortunately not, sir. He seems to have fallen off the grid entirely. He interacted very sparsely with my staff here, so no one even knows where he might even go.”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Sherlock muttered, handing the folder back to Mark to peruse.

“Obvious?” Barrymore asked. “No, not to us.”

“You didn't assume he would go after the person he attacked in the first place that made him end up in here? My brother will surely be his first target.”

The Major looked to Mycroft in concern. “He attacked you, sir?”

Cursing internally, Sherlock wondered why he could never keep his big mouth shut. “The Major hadn’t been told the details about why Elliott was sent here,” Mycroft told Sherlock, unnecessarily since the detective had realised as soon as the man had spoken. “Yes, he did,” the diplomat said, addressing Barrymore. “Hence why I didn’t want the details to become common knowledge.”

“I understand, sir. Please know that whatever we speak of in here will not leave this room.”

“I have complete confidence in your cooperation, Major.”

“If you haven’t done so already, I would suggest amping up your personal security, sir.” His eyes flashed across to Mark. At first glance, the agent didn’t look like much - a willowy, academic type - but the more you observed, the more details you noticed, culminating in the knowledge that, despite appearances, the man was very competent, and very dangerous. “Though something tells me you’ve already thought of that.”

“Indeed. Now, is there anything we need to know if we do get into a...confrontation, with him?”

The Major shrugged. “The drugs he was given increase his stamina and performance, and he is stronger than he was before, but he is in no means invincible. He’s still a man and can be injured or killed, like any other man. If you take him alive, I suggest tranquilisers as well as restraints, but otherwise, a bullet in the brain will stop him just as much as any other man.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at that. “You don’t seem too concerned about getting your test subject back?”

“I still have the results from his testing - they’re not going anywhere. Our subjects here are not volunteers, Mr Holmes. They are...disposable. Hence why I know very little about them, except for what my superiors _want_ me to know about them. We’re pushing the limits of science, and in doing so, we push the limits of life.”

In any other situation, Sherlock would have been appalled at the brutality of his stance, but stored in his mind palace was the sound of Mycroft begging Elliott to stop; the sight of his brother laying drugged on the ground, his clothes ripped from his body; the sense memory of the man who had spent his entire life protecting Sherlock, instead clinging to him in fear. In any other situation, he would have been appalled. In _this_ situation, he wished Barrymore had tortured Elliott even more.

As Mycroft asked further questions, Sherlock began to tune them out. He had the information he had come here for and his resolve solidified. A bullet to the brain would kill the man, and Sherlock fully intended on being the one who put it there.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know - there was no smut! How mean of me - you had to use your imaginations to fill in the blanks between chapters :( Don't worry - we have smut coming in a couple of chapters!


	18. Chapter 18

They made their farewells to Major Barrymore and headed back to the car. They hadn’t been allowed to take any paperwork away with them but Mycroft was confident that between his memory and Sherlock’s, they would have no trouble recalling the details. What they had found was troubling, and Mycroft felt the cold hand of dread sitting on the back of his neck, but there was something else that was causing him much more concern.

Sherlock took the keys off him as they reached the car. “I’ll drive,” he murmured, clearly wanting to reach out and touch but knowing he couldn’t.

Mycroft slid into the passenger seat, and as Mark and Sherlock began to discuss how his security detail would need to be changed, the diplomat focussed his attention on his brother. The younger man’s face was serious, and every now and then as he spoke to Mark in the backseat, he would lift a long fingered hand from the steering wheel to add a gesture to make his point. His glorious eyes roved the road ahead of them, calmly assessing, moving over a little more as a lorry trundled in the opposite direction, swerving slightly to avoid a beer bottle strewn on the road. His stomach made an audible grumble and he chuckled, then asked their suggestions on where they should go for lunch.

Mycroft found it all a little unnerving, how  _ normal _ he was acting, for a man who had just decided to commit a murder.

He had known, the exact moment when Sherlock had made the decision. Fear had flooded through him, overpowering the feelings he had been experiencing due to Elliott’s escape. Not fear of Sherlock, but fear  _ for _ Sherlock. The detective had already taken a life, and if their sister’s little game with Moriarty’s tape hadn’t tricked the government into recalling him, Mycroft wasn’t sure if his brother would have survived. He’d already started making plans, putting things in motion for how he could extract Sherlock from the situation in Eastern Europe before he’d gotten in deep enough to be killed, but he would still have had to been immersed in danger before Mycroft could come for him.

This time was different, and he’d likely kill Elliott under the guise of protecting Mycroft, but he  _ knew _ that given a choice, Sherlock would pull the trigger anyway. He didn’t want to capture the rogue agent - he wanted to kill him. And even though Mycroft knew that Sherlock wasn’t going to develop a taste for blood and start killing innocent people, he was more worried about what it would be doing to his brother on the inside. Choosing to take someone’s life changed you. Mycroft himself had had to make that decision many times for work, even if he hadn’t been the one personally pulling the trigger or plunging in the dagger. He knew firsthand that the more you made that decision, the easier it became. He was so worried that he would become blase about the whole thing, that he now requested as much information about their targets as he could possibly get - did they have a spouse, children, pets? Did they pay for their grandmother’s care facility? Who would mourn them after they were gone? He didn’t do it to torture himself, but because he wanted to be fully aware of the consequences of making the decision. He didn’t want to have a kill order become the easy option, the magical wave of the wand that solved all your problems. It was one of the reasons he had absolutely refused to participate when Eurus made them chose to kill the Governor or watch his wife be murdered.

He was under no illusion that the death of Elliott would most likely be the best outcome for them; he agreed with Sherlock that the man had to die. But he wished that Sherlock hadn’t come to that conclusion, that he himself could shoulder the whole responsibility. Because what of next time? First Magnusson, now Elliott, and then whom? Would the option of reaching for a gun be tantalisingly closer for Sherlock than before? 

They arrived back at the inn and ordered lunch, and Mycroft ignored the concerned glances his brother kept throwing his way. He knew he was being unnaturally quiet, and that Sherlock would most likely conclude it was due to his worry over Elliott, but he couldn’t bring himself to admit it was because of his concern for his lover. The last thing he wanted to do now was to level accusations and cause a rift between them. He had discovered very quickly that Sherlock not only had a possessive streak, but also a protective one, and he would see nothing wrong with his decision. Despite Mycroft’s practices at work, he couldn’t say for certain that if the situation was reversed, he wouldn’t feel the same way.

He finished picking at his meal, having hardly touched it, and once the others were done, they headed upstairs. They’d just gotten to the first door of their adjoining rooms when Sherlock spoke. “Mark,” he said to the MI5 agent.

“Yes, Sher?”

“Go away.”

“Pardon?”

“I need you to go away. Out. Away from here.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because I need some... _ alone time _ with Mycroft and he’ll feel more comfortable if he knows you’re not on the other side of the door.”

Mark regarded him steadily. “No.” he said finally.

“No?” Sherlock spluttered. “What do you mean, no?”

“It’s a very simple, one syllable word - probably one of the first ones you learned. I’m sure you know the definition of it by now.”

“But why are you using it now? It’s a perfectly reasonable request!”

“Actually, it’s not.”

“He’s right, Sherlock,” Mycroft told him quietly.

His brother’s affronted face was turned to him now. “I’m trying to make you more comfortable!”

“And Mark is trying to keep me safe.”

“That  _ was _ the reason behind the adjoining rooms,” Mark reminded him. “Even if it has gotten the imaginations of our kinky innkeepers firing.”

“ _ I  _ can keep Mycroft safe enough for one afternoon,” the detective protested.

Deciding not to have this conversation out in the corridor, Mark unlocked the door to his room and led them inside. “Sher, you have one of the biggest brains I’ve come across. Use it, why don’t you,” he said once they were in private.

“Are you saying that you don’t think I’m capable of protecting Mycroft?”

“When your pants are around your ankles and you’re balls deep inside of him,  _ no I do not _ !”

Mycroft flushed at this, but knew this was exactly the point Sherlock was missing out on, so he sat down quietly on the side of the bed and allowed Mark to argue with his brother.

Sherlock also turned a healthy shade of crimson at their friend’s words, and he gaped at him for a long moment. When he could finally form words again, he replied,“That is besides the point.”

“No, it isn’t. Your focus will be elsewhere, not on assessing the dangers.”

“Mycroft’s  _ emotional well being _ also needs protecting!”

“I’m not disagreeing with you on that point, Sher. I’m saying that while you’re taking care of his emotional state, you can’t be relied upon to be completely aware of your surroundings.”

“Well,  _ I’m _ disagreeing with  _ you _ . I think I can!”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said softly.

His brother ignored him, glaring at Mark. The agent took his fury in his stride, his voice as patient as ever. “Even for someone as observant as you, Sher, your reaction times will be slowed considerably if you’re otherwise occupied. And then you’ve got to... _ disentangle _ yourself in order to be able to physically defend yourselves. I’ve half a mind to give you a demonstration, to let you have your way and for me to leave. You can even watch me get in the car and drive away. I can guarantee you, I can be back in this room with a gun to your head before you know it.”

Mycroft saw the flash of the challenge in Sherlock’s eyes and he groaned internally. He knew his brother could never say no to such a thing. Luckily, Mark also understood. “I’m not going to though.”

“Scared you won’t win?”

“This isn’t about winning, Sherlock!” Mark exclaimed. The detective noticed the use of his full name and his eyes automatically lowered, knowing he had pushed his easy going friend too far. “This is about Mycroft. When this is all over, if you want to pit your skills against mine, I’ll happily do so, but now is not the time. Your desire to comfort your brother comes to nil if you’re then willing to have an intimate moment between the two of you interrupted because of some game.” His eyes softened and he reached out to clasp his hand around Sherlock’s upper arm. “Your brother understands that I need to be here, but trust me when I say, I’m not going to be standing with my ear pressed to the door, jerking off over the sounds coming from the other side.”

“That’s because Mr Spurty isn’t interested in cock,” Sherlock said, his tone still petulant.

Mark laughed, and Mycroft was left mystified over who the hell  _ Mr Spurty _ was. “Exactly. Plus, I’ll be busy keeping a lookout over the area, checking the surveillance feeds of the few CCTV cameras in the area that Anthea has had sent to my laptop. You know - my  _ job _ .”

Sherlock took a deep breath, and then let it out slowly, nodding once at the end. “Point taken.” He paused. “I’m sorry,” he added, very quietly.

Mark shook his head a little and smiled, then pulled Sherlock into a hug. “It’s okay, Sher. I just hope you know that all I’m trying to do is protect Mycroft.  _ And _ you. I’d be a little bit upset if anything happened to either of you.” He pulled back and winked. “I might even cry.”

“Only because your competence as an agent would be called into question. Rightly so, I might add.”

He shrugged. “Yes, well, what can I say? I do rather like my job and I’d like to keep it.”

Stepping over to the bed, Sherlock held a hand out to Mycroft and pulled him to his feet. Their hands clasped tightly together, he then led them to the door that connected their rooms. Mycroft looked over to Mark, who smiled, and then allowed himself to be guided through to the sanctuary of their own room, content to let his brother do whatever he thought necessary to bolster his emotional health.


	19. Chapter 19

As soon as the door closed behind them, Sherlock pulled Mycroft into his arms, holding him tight. He pressed kisses to his temple, then moved down over his eyes, feeling the lids fluttering under his lips, across his cheek to his ear, and sucked the lobe into his mouth. Once he had released it, he licked along the shell, his warm breath causing his brother to shiver. “Let me distract you, Mycie,” he offered, allowing his hands to roam across his back.

“From what?” the older man asked, a strange hitch to his voice.

Sherlock pulled back, and searched Mycroft’s eyes. He saw it not long after, saw that Mycroft  _ knew _ what he intended to do. He could tell he wasn’t happy about it, but also that he was aware that nothing he could say would change the younger man’s mind. There was a resignation to the set of his shoulders, the thin pressing of his lips together. “From whatever you need to be distracted from,” he replied.

A nod, and then Mycroft melted back into his arms, surrendering himself to Sherlock. The niggle of fear that he hadn’t even realised was there dissipated - the worry that perhaps the reminder of the darker recesses of his mind would drive his brother away from him. He hugged him tight, just taking a moment to reassure himself of his presence, and then he decided that it was time to take Mycroft apart and then put him back together again.

He started to unbutton the dark charcoal waistcoat, his fingers deft and deliberate. He saw no point in stringing out the stripping of their clothes, preferring an expediency that would see them both naked as soon as possible. He neatly folded Mycroft’s clothes and lay them over the back of the armchair, knowing it was a pet peeve to have the bespoke suiting strewn across the floor. He allowed his own clothes to fall into a puddle at his feet, not particularly caring about them, just wanting to feel the press of skin on skin. Once there were finally no barriers between them, Sherlock walked his brother backwards towards the bed until Mycroft was falling backwards, scooting up until he was comfortably positioned with a pillow beneath his head. 

Beginning at the tip of one of Mycroft’s long toes, he began to kiss his way up one leg, then dropped down to do the same to the other. As his mouth was busy tasting every inch of warm flesh that it could, one hand held gently to a hip, while the other lovingly caressed the lean muscle of one of his calves. There was a twitch, and then a gasp as he trailed a finger behind the back of his knee, and he smirked at the thought of the British Government being so ticklish. 

Once he had finished worshiping his brother’s gorgeous legs, he moved his way up his body, nosing through the trail of dark hair that led from his belly button down to the meet the thatch of dark curls at the base of his cock. Mycroft whimpered as Sherlock licked at the hollow below his hip bone, and then he pressed the flat of his tongue firmly against the soft skin and trailed his way up over the ridge of his ribs until his mouth met the already hardening nub of a nipple. Mycroft’s cock had already been nicely plump when they’d started but as Sherlock sucked gently on his nipple, he felt it twitch and harden all the way, brushing against his forearm. 

“You are so beautiful like this, Mycie. All laid out for me,” he murmured, moving across to latch onto his other nipple, sucking and licking the sensitive nub. 

“ _ Oh, Sherlock _ ,” the older man breathed, a hand coming down to fist into his curls.

Suddenly, Sherlock wasn’t close enough to him. He  _ needed _ to be closer. He worked his arms under Mycroft’s shoulders so they were laying chest to chest, his body a comforting weight atop his brother. Their cocks had lined up and all he had to do was  _ thrust _ to feel the slide of hot flesh against silky skin, but he didn’t, content just for now to nuzzle the skin at the crook of Mycroft’s neck, breathing in the scent of him. Mycroft’s hands were splayed across Sherlock’s back, warmth emanating from his long digits, seeping into the younger man’s skin. 

Mycroft let his head fall to the side, exposing more of his neck in an open invitation for Sherlock, and the detective nosed along the line of his throat, then kissed over the fading love bite he’d left days ago. He desperately wanted to renew it, a glowing beacon that the beautiful man beneath him was off limits to all but him, but he knew it would just cause his brother more embarrassment at work. Instead, he moved down to the juncture of where shoulder met neck, a spot that would be well and truly hidden by clothing. He bit down gently, and then sucked hard, a bruise blooming across the skin beneath his lips. Mycroft’s body bucked beneath him, and he whined in need, his hands clutching at Sherlock’s shoulders. 

Sherlock rolled his hips, and they both gasped as their erections dragged against each other. He did it again, loving the sounds that were wrung from his brother during these moments. The older man arched his back as much as he could under the weight of the consulting detective, pressing their bodies even closer together. “ _ Sherlock, _ ” he said, his voice breathy. “ _ Need you _ .” 

Their mouths found each other - the first proper kiss since they’d entered the room, and it was wet and messy, their mutual arousal robbing them of any sort of propriety. Tongues tangled together, and there was the odd clack of teeth on teeth, as they kissed until the need for air broke them apart. After gulping in lungfuls of air, they kissed again, just as desperate, and Sherlock felt the delicious scratch of nails down his back. Then Mycroft’s hands were groping his arse, squeezing the cheeks, before using his hold to thrust Sherlock against him. Their stomachs were slick with precome and their cocks slid between the heat of their bodies, but they both needed more.

“Just one moment,” Sherlock whispered, then rolled off his brother and got up gracefully from the bed. A soft whine escaped Mycroft’s throat and Sherlock paused, taking a moment to drink in the sight on the bed below him. His brother’s pale skin was flushed pink, darker on his cheeks and neck, and his pupils were blown wide. Their filthy kiss had left his lips swollen, and his cock was hard against his stomach, the skin glistening in the light where Sherlock’s own cock had pressed against it, smearing it with his fluids. A mixture of emotions surged through him, so strong that he was momentarily overwhelmed by them. Love, lust, and the desperate need to protect the man that meant more to him than anything else on the planet. His breath had caught in his throat, and after a moment he forced himself to turn away, to move. 

Sherlock rummaged in his bag, pulling out the bottle of lube he had packed. He climbed back up onto the bed and kissed Mycroft again, gentler this time, the fingers of one hand trailing a soft path down over his ribs. He pulled back, and smiled down at Mycroft, then shuffled down the bed until he was kneeling between his knees. Opening the lube and squeezing a generous amount onto his fingers, he slicked his own cock, feeling it twitch beneath his fingertips. He then spread the remainder of the lube over Mycroft’s entrance, his finger dipping just inside, more of a tease than a precaution. They both bottomed so often that there was no need for lengthy preparation, just a lot of lube and a little patience. He then pressed the head of his cock against the delicate pink hole that was fluttering in anticipation, and leaning over so he could get an arm beneath Mycroft’s shoulders, he started to slowly sink inside. 

Their lips met, stifling the low moans they both were making as, little by little, Mycroft’s passage took in Sherlock’s cock. They both paused once he was fully sheathed, their eyes locking, no words necessary. And then he rocked his hips, and Mycroft gasped, raising his legs to lock around Sherlock’s waist, a foot pressing against the younger man’s plush cheeks, urging him on. 

Sherlock buried his face in Mycroft’s neck, his other arm working under his brother so he was cradling him in his arms as his hips snapped and drove him in even deeper. He could feel warm breath against his ear, hear every tiny sound that Mycroft made, and it urged him on, fuelling his passions. 

There was crash of a door opening, and Sherlock’s head whipped up to see Mark rushing into the room. “Fucking hell, Mark, you made your point earlier!” he snapped.

Mark shook his head and moved to the window. “I’m not playing, Sherlock.” His face was grim as he bent down to retrieve Sherlock’s clothes off the floor, throwing them onto the bed. “I spotted Elliott on CCTV. He’s coming.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On an unrelated note, I'd like to extend an invitation to you all. Most people don't have a lot of friends they can talk with in real life about their love of fanfic, or if they do (I'm lucky to have a few) a taboo ship like Mylock is a little *too* out there for them. I've created a secret group on Facebook where we can have a safe place to discuss fics, make reccs, post snippets and teases of stories, share fan art, and just be able to be as enthusiastic as we want without being judged! It's not just for Mylockers either - if this isn't your primary ship, feel free to tell us about your OTP! It's a safe, respectful place where we all have a love of Sherlock and fanfic in common.  
> Because it's a secret group, you have to be invited as you can't search for it, but if you'd like an invite, drop me an email at scarletmanuka1@gmail.com and I'll send one your way :) 
> 
> And now on a related note - sorry-not-sorry for the cliffhanger :P


	20. Chapter 20

Any possibility of feeling mortified at being caught in such a position fled Mycroft’s brain as Mark’s words sunk in. He froze completely, feeling his eyes go wide. He couldn’t understand his reactions at all - he had extensive training in hand-to-hand combat, and although it had been years since he’d had to use it, he could still hold his own. He had both Sherlock and Mark with him, and they were not unprepared. But for some reason, just the thought of that man getting close to him, to touching him again, made his entire body shut down from fear.

He’d tried to downplay how much the attack had affected him - after all, it was just  _ attempted _ rape as Elliott had been stopped before he could do much more than rip off his clothes and grope him. It wasn’t the physical assault that was the issue though, it was how powerless he had been to stop the man. He remembered the look in Elliott’s eyes, as he had been manhandled into the bedroom, the drugs paralysing his limbs so he could do little but stammer a few words of protest. It was the knowledge that he was completely vulnerable, entirely at the mercy of the man who stood above him, who had told him explicitly what he had planned to do with him.

If his brother and their friend hadn’t arrived, he knew for a fact that he would not have survived. Elliott would have taken what he wanted, but there was no way he could have walked out of there, knowing what consequences awaited him if he left Mycroft alive. For a long time, death hadn’t scared Mycroft, but he had just discovered how it felt to have the overwhelming love you felt for another returned, and he hadn’t wanted to die before he’d had more time with Sherlock. Perhaps that was why he was reacting like this now, frozen with fear? Was it because things had gotten even better? It was even more excruciating to think of losing the love of his life now.

All this flickered through his thoughts in a matter of moments, and then he was brought back to the present by Sherlock gently extracting himself. His brother ducked his head and dropped a swift kiss to Mycroft’s lips, and then he was up, pulling on his clothes as Mark peered through the curtains, surveying the area outside the inn.

Once Sherlock was dressed, he crossed to the chair and brought over Mycroft’s clothes. His eyes were full of concern as he took the older man by the elbow and urged him up, off the bed. He seemed to know that Mycroft was unable to function properly as he helped to him to dress, his nimble fingers doing the buttons up on his shirt and tucking it into his trousers. He then pulled him into a crushing hug, pressing Mycroft’s face against the soft skin of his neck. “I won’t let him hurt you,” Sherlock murmured, kissing his brother’s auburn hair.

Those words, and the promise behind them, were like a slap to Mycroft’s face. He snapped out of his fear-induced paralysis, the numbness vanishing as he regained control of his body. He could not allow Sherlock to take a life on his behalf, he just couldn’t. He would not allow another name to be added to his brother’s ledger. 

He sucked in a deep breath, and straightened out of the embrace, pulling all the authority and power he held around him like armour. “What do we know?” he asked his agent, who now drew the curtains closed.

“Target spotted on CCTV on the main street, sir. Heading in this direction, not drawing attention to himself but moving with purpose. Not making any attempts to hide, either.”

“Right, well let’s assume our location has been discovered. Do we have time to leave? Or do we need to prepare for a confrontation here?”

Mark pulled his phone from his pocket and opened the screen, the CCTV feed being directed to that device now. He scanned through several views, his expression growing more and more frustrated. “He’s no longer in view of any of the cameras.” He threw an apologetic look towards Mycroft. “Sorry, sir, there’s so few cameras here that once you get off the main roads, we lose coverage. There’s no way to tell for sure. From the pace he was walking, I’d say we’d be cutting it fine either way.”

“Right, well let’s attempt to get to the car and draw him off,” he decided. “Grab your belongings and let’s go.”

They hadn’t unpacked so it didn't take much to pick up the bags and to hurry into the hallway. Mark held his overnight bag in one hand and in the other his gun, the firearm held low and facing the ground as they rushed downstairs. The lunch rush would be over by now so hopefully there would be few patrons still around. They made their way into the main room of the pub, the door in sight when they came to a halt.

An older couple were just running through the door, their faces full of fear as they darted a look over their shoulders. There were no other customers in the room, the others seeming to have fled as well. Gary stood behind the bar, his hands held up in a placating gesture, his eyes locked on his partner. Billy was standing in the main room, his eyes round with fright, Elliott at his back with a gun to his head. 

Mycroft heard Sherlock hiss as they took in the scene, and Elliott grinned, looking almost feral. “Well, isn’t that just a sight for sore eyes,” he growled, his eyes locked on Mycroft. “The vision that kept me going during those long, lonely months.” His tongue came out to wet his bottom lip as his eyes continued to rove over the diplomat.

Mark had dropped his bag to the floor and his gun was now being held steady in both hands, aimed at Elliott’s head. “You don’t want to do anything stupid, Elliott,” he said, his voice calm, not betraying the anger that Mycroft knew was thrumming underneath.

Elliott’s eyes cut to Mark for a split second and then dismissed him. “You know I was always a better shot than you, Mark. Do you really want to take your chances?”

“I don’t have my hands full with a hostage, so I’d say it’s me who has the advantage.”

The ex-agent snarled, and much to Mycroft’s surprise, shoved the frightened man away from him. Billy scampered around the bar, into the waiting arms of his partner, where they both ducked down and hid. Elliott now had both hands on the gun, and was aiming it at Mark. “Looks like the advantage has swung back to me.”

“What is it exactly that you want?” Mark asked, his voice calm.

“I think we all know that I want to finish what I started.”

“I’m not buying that you’re doing all of this for a shag.”

He shot Mark a derisive look. “It’s so much more than a  _ shag _ ,” he said. His eyes flickered back to Mycroft and his tongue peeked out again to lick along his lip. The sight of it made Mycroft run utterly cold and he leaned a little more towards Sherlock, not even taking a step, just allowing his centre of gravity to shift slightly towards the warmth at his side. “My delectable piece of meat over there knows that well from the looks of him. I must say, fear is a  _ good _ look on you, darling. I’m looking forward to enjoying it in a much more...intimate way.”

The growl that tore from Sherlock’s throat made the hair on Mycroft’s neck stand up. His brother moved deliberately, stepping in front of Mycroft, using himself as a shield. “If you even lay a finger on him, I will kill you,” he snarled.

Peering over the detective’s shoulder, Mycroft could see the gun had swung around to point at Sherlock. “Oh, isn’t that sweet. Baby brother to the rescue. Careful though, do you really want your parents to have to attend  _ two _ funerals? I suspect they’re a bit old now to make new babies to replace their children.”

“The only funeral there’ll be is for you,” Sherlock spat.

“Oh, that’s precious. I’m sure you read my file, baby brother. I know you’re as smart as my little cock slut over there, so you know you don’t stand a chance against me. I’m not scared of a couple of Holmeses.”

“You should meet our sister.” It was clearly a threat, even though Elliott couldn’t possibly know why as he’d not had that clearance.

“Oh, is there a family resemblance? Tell me, does she look more like you or Mycroft? Because you don't do it for me, but if she looks like him, then I might give her a bit of a ride as well. When your brother is too broken to be any fun anymore.” He smirked.

A gunshot rang out in the small room, leaving Mycroft’s ears ringing. Mark had taken the opportunity while he had it to fire off a shot, aiming for Elliott’s hands. He’d obviously been worried if he went for a head or chest shot that there was the possibility of his finger convulsing around the trigger. This way, his arms were flung backwards with the force of the bullet shattering one of his wrists, the gun now laying useless on the floor. Before he could fire again, to take the man down, his aim was blocked.

Sherlock had leapt forward, a snarl in his throat, and murder in his eyes.

 

 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo for double up Sunday!

As furious as Sherlock was, behind the anger, his mind was still ticking away - analysing and observing. He had seen for himself the extra strength the man now possessed in the easy way he had discarded the innkeeper like a rag doll, in his stance, and the way his muscles flexed and rippled beneath his skin. Even with the injury that Mark had inflicted, Elliott would still be dangerous, adrenaline giving him an even further boost. Sherlock wanted to hurt him, but he was aware that he was no match for the ex-agent. He would get one chance and he needed to make it count.

Lunging towards him, he balled his hand into a fist, his thumb held taut. His body connected with Elliott’s, his momentum driving them both backwards, crashing into one of the heavy wooden tables. With the man bent backwards over the surface, Sherlock brought his fist down and plunged his thumb into Elliott’s eye. There was a tiny moment of resistance, and then the satisfying feeling of his nail breaking the surface and plunging into the eyeball.

Elliott howled as vitreous fluid gushed from his socket, and with inhuman strength he shoved Sherlock off of him. The detective was flung backwards, connecting with both Mark and Mycroft, the three of them sprawling on the ground. Elliott fled from the room, the door slamming open as he ran, leaving a trail of blood behind him.

Mark was on his feet first, rushing to the door, gun at the ready. He fired off several shots at the fleeing man, but none of them connected. He stood, watching the spot where Elliott had disappeared around a bend in the road, breathing hard. Sherlock saw Mycroft pull out his phone and was soon connected through to Anthea, ordering surveillance and trackers. He reached over and picked up a serviette that had been pushed off the table during the fight, and wiped almost absently at his thumb.

Mycroft hung up and turned to Sherlock, who was shocked to see anger on his brother’s face. “What the bloody hell was that, Sherlock?” he demanded.

“What do you mean?” the younger man asked, taken back by the fury he could feel emanating from his brother. 

“Mark had the shot,” he snapped. “He’d disarmed Elliott and was ready to take the kill shot when you got in his way.” They were still sitting on the floor, but the position in no way diminished his outrage.

“No, it wasn’t like -”

“Bullshit,” Mycroft said, cutting him off. “You let your own desire for revenge interfere and that has allowed Elliott to escape. He’s still out there because of your selfish actions.”

“Mycie, I-”

“ _ NO! _ ” he thundered, climbing to his feet and glaring down at his sibling. “I don’t want to hear it, Sherlock. You know exactly what you were doing, and it’s on you that he’s still out there.” From outside came the sound of sirens as local law enforcement descended on the area. Breathing deeply, Mycroft straightened his shoulders. “I’ll go deal with this.” He strode from the room, leaving Sherlock to stare after him.

Mark was speaking quietly to Gary and Billy, telling them to stay put so they could give a statement to the police, and then he came over to where Sherlock was still sitting on the floor. He quirked a small smile at his friend, but Sherlock could see the disappointment in his eyes. It was obvious he was in full agreement with Mycroft as to whose feet the blame lay at for Elliott’s escape. He held out a hand, and pulled Sherlock to his feet. “Come on, Sher. Let’s get our stuff in the car so as soon as your brother has spoken to the coppers we can be on our way.”

He nodded mutely and stooped to pick up his and Mycroft’s overnight bags. They headed out to the parking lot, and deposited their items in the boot, then were both asked several questions by the local detective. The man was obviously put out at the breach of protocol, letting them leave without a proper statement. Mycroft had assured him that he would be forwarded the correct paperwork by his colleague in London, DI Lestrade, but he was still miffed. 

Mycroft didn’t even look at Sherlock as they all walked over to the car. His body was stiff with anger and his eyes still glinted with fury. Knowing he would not do himself any favours by reaching out to his brother, Sherlock slid into the backseat, preparing to sulk the entire way back to London. Mark spoke to Mycroft quietly, offering to drive and soon they were out of town and hitting the M5. 

An hour into the drive, Mark pulled over at a coaching inn so they could use the amenities and get some food. Sherlock remained in the car, his arms crossed against his chest and his head leaning against the window. A few minutes later he heard the other rear door open and someone slid onto the seat. His heart rate accelerated and he jerked his head around, only to have his hope die in his chest as he saw it was Mark. His disappointment must have been obvious as the young agent threw him an apologetic smile. He handed over an egg and lettuce sandwich and a bottle of water. “You have to eat something,” he said.

“I’m not hungry.” Petulant, he took the food and then immediately dropped it on the seat next to him.

Mark sighed. “Fine, don’t eat if you don’t want to.” He opened the plastic triangle that held his own sandwich and pulled out one half, taking a bite. His eyes were on Sherlock as he chewed, but he didn't say anything as he finished the half. “Mycroft is on the phone to his superiors,” he said, wiping away a crumb that had fallen onto his shirt. “He shouldn’t be much longer.”

The detective shrugged.

“You understand why he’s angry, yeah?”

Another shrug, and then he looked away, focussing on a point outside the car as he tried to ignore the prickling in his eyes. 

“Look, I know why you did it  I understand you want to protect him. And Mycroft sure as hell knows that too. But that doesn’t change the fact that this nightmare could have been over today. Instead, Elliott’s still out there, and he’s probably more inclined for revenge now.”

“I get it,” Sherlock snapped. “I fucked up.”

Mark leaned forward between the front seats and dropped the rest of his dinner into the console to be consumed later. He then shuffled over so he could reach Sherlock and then gently turned his face so he was looking at him. “It’s more than that, Sher. We all make mistakes, but that’s not why he’s angry.”

“Because you know him  _ so _ well,” he spat, hating that he was venting his own upset and frustrations on his friend but finding himself quite unable to help himself.

“Actually, I do. And I know you, so don't be such a git, Sher,” Mark admonished. “Mycroft is scared, and exhausted, but above all, he’s just witnessed you do something that, despite your intentions, has now placed him in greater danger than before.”

“I didn’t mean to do that!” the detective protested.

“I know, and so does your brother. But it’s going to take a while for him to be able to think rationally about all of this. Try not to make it harder on him than it already is.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Mark gave him a level stare. “You know exactly what I mean. I get that you’re upset too, but sulking and acting like a child isn’t helping.”

“I didn't think it appropriate to sing show tunes and crack jokes,” he replied caustically.

“Yes, well, it wouldn’t hurt to be a bit more of a grownup about it, either.” Sherlock huffed and pulled his face from Mark’s grip so he could go back to staring sullenly out the window. “Or not,” Mark said, sighing heavily. Then the door was opened and Mark was gone from the back seat, only to circle the car and appear next to the driver’s door. Mycroft was coming back as well and soon they were on their way again.

Sherlock let his eyes close, but he didn’t sleep. His ears were alert for any sounds from the front of the car, but both his brother and Mark were just as reticent. Despite his own hurt at Mycroft’s anger, he understood the way he was acting. As well as being upset, Sherlock was also feeling a lot of guilt and shame for his actions. He hated that he had allowed Elliott to escape, that his thoughtlessness had put Mycroft in even more danger. If anything happened to his lover, it would be his fault, and he knew he’d never be able to live with himself. He vowed that as soon as they got home and were alone, he would apologise to Mycroft and beg his forgiveness. 

It appeared though that he wasn’t going to get that chance.

They had entered the city limits and Mark began to head for Mycroft’s townhouse. Mycroft turned, and in a chilly voice said, “To Baker Street, if you would, Mark. We need to drop my brother off on the way.”

 


	22. Chapter 22

The car was quiet as Mark drove Mycroft back to his house after essentially kicking Sherlock to the curb. The elder brother needed space, distance between himself and his lover in order to gain control over the anger that was simmering beneath the surface. He had borne the brunt of Sherlock’s selfish behaviour many times in the past, but very few of them had had such dire consequences. It had usually involved the destruction of one of his possessions, or a minor inconvenience, nothing on this kind of scale.

The thing that smarted the most though, was that he had trusted Sherlock with his feelings, had kept nothing hidden from him - Sherlock knew just how rattled he had been after the attack and then when they discovered Elliott had escaped. He had allowed Sherlock access to his inner self, had bared his soul, and this was how he was repaid. The younger man had acted out of a protective instinct, but that didn’t negate the fact that he had made the situation invariably worse. Elliott would hide away to lick his wounds and to recover, but then he would be back, more intent on destroying him than before. And thanks to his actions, it would not only be Mycroft in the line of fire, but Sherlock as well. The detective  _ knew _ how important it was to Mycroft for him to be safe, and he had gone and put himself in more danger than usual. It was so reckless, so  _ thoughtless _ , that Mycroft felt like he had been kicked in the gut.

He had felt like his heart would break as Sherlock had watched them drive away. His brother’s face was pinched in genuine pain and misery, and he had forced himself to look away, lest he ask Mark to turn around. The urge to gather Sherlock to him and smother him in kisses warred with the desire to yell and scream, and he knew that neither of those things would be productive right now. He needed some time to calm down, to overcome the - there was no other word for it -  _ betrayal _ he felt at Sherlock’s actions. 

They arrived at his townhouse and Mark followed him inside, not speaking but it was clear he supported Mycroft’s actions wholeheartedly. His silent support bolstered Mycroft’s resolve that he had done what needed to be done, and he felt immense gratitude to the young man. The fact that Mark went and put his bag in the spare room, indicating he would stay (even though tonight was probably the only night they knew for certain that Elliott wouldn’t return) did not go unnoticed. His friendship with Sherlock had always been easy, and natural, but his relationship with the older man had been a little stiff and formal. Neither could overlook the fact that Mycroft was his superior at work, and it was always there, lingering in the background. Mark had been on the clock, but tonight he had the option of going home, taking a break. Instead, he went to the table in the sitting room that held the scotch, poured two generous measures and brought them across to the couch. The man who sat sat down on the couch was no longer Agent Mark Reid, but simply Mark - Mycroft’s friend. 

Mycroft accepted the glass and took a sip, trying to get control of the emotions that were threatening to bubble over. If anyone from work had witnessed what a blubbering idiot he’d been in recent times, his reputation as The Iceman would be forever tarnished. The more he tried to suppress the feelings, the more they seemed to want to escape. He bit his lip hard, hoping the pain would stop the tears that were welling in his eyes, but it did no good. A sob broke free, and the tears spilled over his cheeks, and then he was lost.

The glass was taken from him and then arms were wrapped around him and he was pulled against Mark’s chest. “It’s alright, Mycroft, let it all out,” he soothed as his shirt was soaked with the older man’s tears. “You’ll feel better afterwards.”

“I don't want to shed anymore tears over that man,” he gasped out, fighting again to regain control. 

“I know, but I don’t think these tears are over Elliott. We both know that Sherlock has upset you today.”

“It’s only because I love him so much and don’t want him hurt,” he cried. “But how much can I really love him if I dumped him at Baker Street and came back here without him?”

He heard Mark chuckle. “That’s your desire to protect him coming out in full force. You know that if he were here, you’d probably strangle him. It’s better for both of you to have some time apart, and really, one night isn’t going to kill him. It’ll give him ample opportunity to really think about what he did.”

“I doubt he’ll see it like that,” he replied, sniffing in the most undignified way possible.

“Maybe not right at this very moment, but he’ll understand eventually. Trust me, you made the right call. This is for the best.” He nodded but didn’t reply, hoping the young agent was right. “It’s pretty late. Did you want to call it a night?”

His arms tightened around Mark and he shook his head. “If I go to bed now all I’ll accomplish is staring at the ceiling and brooding. Besides,” he admitted almost grudgingly, “I don’t really want to be alone right now.”

“Okay, well I’ll stay up with you as long as you need.” He pulled back a little though, breaking the embrace. “I’ll be back in a jiffy,” he assured him, noticing the flash of disappointment in Mycroft’s eyes.

Mark left the room and Mycroft curled into himself, mourning the loss of his touch. Other than with Sherlock, he’d never been an overly tactile person, associating touch with affection which went against his anti-sentiment stance. That rigorous viewpoint was relaxing somewhat due to the effect of a romantic relationship, but he still wasn’t overly comfortable with having someone hold him in such a familiar manner. Mark was different though. He had been there to comfort Sherlock many times in the past, and he seemed more than happy to provide the same support to his brother. It helped that he knew that Mark’s feelings for him were entirely platonic, making him much more comfortable. If there had been any hint of desire, mutual or not, it would get awkward and potentially dangerous in no time at all. Plus, he would suffer from a guilty conscience. Since there were no sexual undertones at all, Mycroft felt like he could indulge quite safely.

By the time Mark had returned, a container of ice cream in one hand and two spoons in the other, Mycroft had neatly dealt with any doubts and was looking forward to a friendly cuddle. The frozen treat was handed to him, Mark went and plucked a DVD from the shelf and loaded it into the player, and then he switched the lights off and returned to the couch. The younger man sat down, and opened his arms, with Mycroft eagerly shuffling over into the embrace, laying his head on his chest. Mark then pulled the throw rug off the back of the couch and covered them both, and hit play on the DVD. The opening credits of  _ Gone With The Wind _ began and Mycroft felt himself start to relax. He was handed a spoon and he scooped up a mouthful of the dessert, feeling Mark swallow beneath his cheek as he did the same.

He pushed away all thoughts of the day’s events, the jumble of emotions, and even thoughts of his brother. He needed this - time to just forget everything - and in the morning he could then start to evaluate everything and make plans. For now, he needed to zone out. And so he let himself concentrate only on the grace of Vivian Leigh, the sweetness of the ice cream, and the comfort of his friend’s embrace, and let himself go.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the secret facebook idea has been embraced wholeheartedly - it seems that there are very few of us who have people in real life to chat to about not just this ship, but others as well. If you want to join, drop me an email at scarletmanuka1@gmail.com and I'll send you an invite using your email addy since you won't be able to find it by searching due to the privacy restrictions. The more the merrier and everyone is welcome!


	23. Chapter 23

John had fussed over Sherlock when he’d finally made his way up into the flat, his feet dragging and his heart heavy. The doctor could tell there was something wrong, but Sherlock was adamant he didn’t want to talk about it. He bypassed his armchair, finding the couch was much easier to sulk in, and threw himself onto it. He curled his knees up to his chest and stared out at nothing, ignoring the concerned sounds John was making.

Suddenly there were small hands on his face and big blue eyes staring into his. Rosie’s forehead twitched as she prodded at his mouth, and then she leaned forward and kissed his nose. “Sad,” she announced, climbing up onto the couch. “Need ‘uddles.”

His arms automatically wrapped around the child and before he knew it, he was crying uncontrollably. Rosie patted his arm and snuggled against him, and John crossed to sit beside him. After several long minutes where his body was wracked with sobs, John patted his ankle. “Time for bed, Rosie,” he said.

“But Sher Sher is sad!”

“I know, love, and I’m going to try and make him happy again, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have to get to bed.”

She pouted but knew how stern her father was when it came to bedtime. She pressed a sloppy kiss to Sherlock’s cheek and then held her arms out to John so he could carry her to bed. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he assured his flatmate.

Sherlock nodded, wiping his eyes with his hands. He debated sending Mycroft a text, telling him how sorry he was, but he knew it wouldn’t help. His brother had every right to be mad at him and he needed time to calm down. Mycroft would never have been so angry if it had been a different confrontation - with Moriarty or Magnusson for example - it was the emotional baggage he had with Elliott that was making him react so harshly. He would give him the night to calm down and then he would go and see him first thing in the morning, apologise in person and hope he forgave him.

John came back and stood in the doorway. “Tea?” he asked.

The detective shook his head. “Not for me, thanks.”

Deciding to forego a cup as well, he returned to the couch. “Want to tell me what happened?” he asked.

Sherlock sighed and rolled over onto his back. He’d not told John much about the situation, just a basic rundown of the facts - that Elliott had been sent to Baskerville after the attack, that he had been a human test subject, but now he had escaped. He hadn’t included details of Mycroft’s fear, or his own desire for revenge, and had in all likelihood made the situation sound not as bad as it was. He supposed John would figure that out rather quickly. “After we’d been to visit the Major, Elliott tracked us to the Cross Keys. There was a confrontation and he was wounded, but before Mark could finish the job, I may have gotten in the way so he couldn’t.”

“Why would you do that? It’s obvious you want the fucker dead.” Understanding dawned on his face as he caught sight of Sherlock’s guilty expression. “Right, but you wanted it done by _your_ hand. So, what happened then?”

“He got away,” he said in a very small voice.

“I figure Mycroft is pretty upset.” It was a statement, not a question.

Swallowing hard, and squeezing his eyes to keep more tears from falling, he nodded. “I don’t know what to do, John.” His voice was broken with the pain he was feeling. “I know I’ve let him down, and I know it was my fault, and I don’t know if he’ll listen when I tell him how sorry I am.”

John shuffled over a little so he could gave Sherlock’s leg a squeeze. “I’m sure he will listen - Mycroft adores you, Sherlock. Yes, he’s upset - understandably so - but I’m sure he realises why you did it. I’m sure he’ll hear you out.”

“What if he can’t forgive me?”

“I honestly don’t think that will happen, so don’t even worry about that.”

“How can you be so sure?”

John huffed good naturedly. “I just said he adores you, you big dolt. It was a mistake, Sherlock, and Mycroft understands better than anyone that the best intentions can have disastrous consequences.”

He finally nodded, conceding that point at least. “Thank you, John. For listening. I think I’m going to go and have a shower and retire for the evening now.”

“No problem. Try and get some sleep, yeah?”

“I will. Goodnight.”

~~~~~~~~~

It was very early when Sherlock let himself into Mycroft’s townhouse. Anthea had arranged his schedule to be cleared for the remainder of the week as they had thought they’d still be in Baskerville, but with their early return, Sherlock wasn’t sure if his brother would go into the office. He heard the television in the sitting room and headed that way instead of up the stairs.

He paused and blinked as he took in the sight. The menu for _Gone With the Wind_ was repeating itself over and over - the noise he’d heard - and curled up on the couch, fast asleep, were Mycroft and Mark. Several emotions warred within him and for a brief moment, Sherlock was completely overwhelmed. He was relieved that their friend had been here for his brother, but also worried at just how upset Mycroft must have been to accept comfort from somebody else. Warmth flared in his chest as he saw just how adorable the older man looked, his knees tucked up under him, his face peaceful in sleep, hand twitching gently against Mark’s shirt. There was the expected surge of jealousy at seeing them in such an intimate position, even if intellectually he knew nothing would ever happen. The back of the diplomat’s shirt had come untucked from his trousers due to the angle of his back, exposing a pale band of skin. Mark had an arm around Mycroft and his arm fell in such a way that his hand rested right against the exposed band. The agent was similar in build to Sherlock and he had long, slender fingers as well. Disconnecting from whose hand it was, he could almost imagine it was his own and a spike of arousal went through him as he imagined stroking that soft skin, moving his mouth over it, and then pushing the shirt out the rest of the way so everything was revealed to him.

Shaking himself mentally to come back to the present, he hunted around until he found the remote and switched off the television. The sudden silence roused Mycroft and his eyes opened blearily. With a hint of amusement, Sherlock watched as his brother tried to marry in his mind the sight of his lover standing before him, and the feeling of being in someone’s embrace. He was utterly confused for several seconds, until his brain kicked into gear and he remembered the events of the night previously. A flicker of sorrow crossed his features, but then he schooled his face into a neutral expression and started to extract himself from their friend’s arms.

“He’s quite the octopus,” Sherlock rumbled quietly as Mycroft struggled to escape without waking Mark.

He failed as the agent murmured sleepily, his arms tightening around the older man. “More sleep.” Then his eyes fluttered open and he became aware of several things all at once; who he was snuggling with, that his snuggle buddy was trying to get up, and that they had an audience. “Sher!” he half shouted, jumping up into a sitting position. This shoved Mycroft forward and he went sprawling onto the floor in a rather ungainly fashion. “Fuck, sorry, Mycroft!” Whilst trying to help the diplomat to his feet, he threw apologetic glances at Sherlock. “This isn’t what it looks like,” he assured him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I rather thought it looked like you had spent the night platonically  comforting my brother after I had upset him, so I’m fairly certain it _is_ what it looks like.” He cleared his throat, dropping the flippant manner and becoming more sombre. Mycroft was now perched back on the edge of the couch, but his eyes were cast downwards, his shoulders slumped. “Can I have a word, Mycie? It won’t take long, and then if you want me to go, I will.” His voice broke a little on the final word.

“How about I get going and give you two some space?” Mark offered, getting up and looking around for his keys. “I think you’ll be safe enough with the men watching the place, and I should probably grab some more stuff from home.”

“Take the whole day, Mark” Mycroft told him. “I’ll look at the data we have later but you should be able to have the night to yourself as well. I’ll call you later once I know more.”

“Sure thing.” He smiled at Mycroft and then pulled Sherlock into a quick hug, and then he was gone, leaving the brothers alone.

They were quiet for several minutes, tension thrumming between them as Sherlock tried to speak several times, but couldn’t find the words. Finally he blurted out. “I’m so sorry, Mycie,” and then burst into tears.

 

 


	24. Chapter 24

Mycroft held his arms open and the younger man rushed to him, throwing himself into his embrace, causing them to both fall back against the backrest of the couch. Cool fingers caressed his curls and then Mycroft was pressing kisses to his temple and face. “I know, love, I know you’re sorry. And I am as well. I’m sorry I hurt you by needing time away.”

“No!” Sherlock pulled back and shook his head vehemently. “You don’t need to apologise, Mycie. It was so thoughtless of me - I know how much Elliott rattles you.”

His brother’s lip quirked and he gave a small shake of his head. “I don’t think you quite grasp _why_ I got so upset. It’s not because I’m scared of Elliott.”

“You don’t have to be ashamed, Mycie. Fear is a natural response to such a situation.”

“I know that, Sherlock,” he said, sounding a little exasperated. “And I’m not saying that’s not part of it; of course I’m scared, but that’s not why I reacted the way I did.”

Sherlock cocked his head to one side, not understanding, the tears drying on his cheeks. “Why then?”

“Because I’m scared for _you_ , you daft thing! Sherlock, all I have ever wanted, my entire life, is to keep you safe. It has always been my priority, always. If you and the Queen both had guns pointed at you, without any hesitation, I would jump in front of you to save your life, the Monarchy be hanged! Your wellbeing is my top concern, and even though this past week it has been _you_ guarding _me,_ I could handle that because Elliott’s wrath was directed at me. But now, after what you did, he’ll be coming for you too and that terrifies me. He is dangerous, and I am so scared that he’s going to take you away from me. I can’t, Sherlock,” he said, his voice breaking. “ _I can’t lose you_.”

“Oh.” His breath caught a little in his throat, and suddenly it all made sense to Sherlock. He suddenly felt ten times worse, the guilt weighing him down even more, but now wasn’t the time to wallow in self pity. Now was the time for reassurances. “He’s not going to, Mycie. I’m not going anywhere, I promise. Just like you didn’t let terrorists in Jakarta keep you from me, I’m not about to let a deranged, super soldier keep me from you.” He leant back into his brother’s embrace, laying his head on his chest and squeezing him tightly. “You’ll never lose me, Mycie.”

They stayed like that, just holding each other for a long time, until Mycroft shifted against him. “I need you, love,” he whispered. “I need to convince myself that you’re not going anywhere.

“Anything you need, Mycie, anything at all. Just tell me what you want from me.”

“Finish what you started yesterday?”

Sherlock lay his palms on either side if Mycroft’s face and drew him in for a kiss. “Of course, brother mine.” He stood and offered a hand to the older man, helping him to his feet, and then he led him upstairs to the bedroom. Once they had divested themselves of their clothes, Sherlock took several minutes to just kiss his brother. It began slow, gentle, and reassuring to begin with, but the longer it went on, the more heated it became. The odd brush of his tongue against Mycroft’s lips led to several licks inside, and then to the muscle being sucked entirely into the older man’s mouth. Mycroft’s arms tightened around his neck, as he held him close, the kiss turning absolutely filthy as Sherlock fucked his brother’s mouth with his tongue. Their erections dragged against each other, and he tilted his hips a little to increase the friction. Mycroft whimpered against his mouth and tugged him towards the bed. “ _Please, Sherlock_.”

Who was he to deny such a request? Sherlock followed him down onto the mattress, covering his body with his own, allowing his hands to wander over the expanse of pale, delicious skin. As his brother reached blindly for the lube, the detective latched onto his chest and sucked a bruise just above Mycroft’s right nipple. His back arched off the bed as Sherlock increased the pressure, turning the love bite a lovely shade of purple. “Need you, brother mine, please,” he gasped.

Sherlock took the lube from him and settled back on his knees, coating himself liberally and spreading some over Mycroft’s pink, quivering pucker. He pressed kisses to the tops of those lovely, long legs and then lifted them up so they wrapped around his waist. Then he lined himself up and slowly sank just the head inside. Mycroft moaned softly and pressed against him with his feet, urging him in even deeper. He buried his face into his brother’s neck as he slid in even further to that hot, tight space, his lips mouthing at the soft skin. “Fuck, you feel so good, Mycie,” he murmured.

“As do you, Sherlock. You always give me exactly what I need, brother mine.” The older man’s voice was husky with his desire and it caused Sherlock’s prick to grow even harder, although he hadn’t thought that possible.

He began to rock back and forth, trying to sink in even deeper, even though his balls were already slapping against Mycroft’s arse. His brother’s legs tightened around him, urging him even faster, and he braced his elbows so he could lose himself in the motion. Mycroft seemed to need it hard and deep, to feel it long after they’d finished, to recall the memory of their lovemaking in every twinge and ache whenever he sat down the following day. The older man would never be able to vocalise such a plea, but luckily for them, Sherlock could read him like an open book, and knew exactly what he was silently begging for.

He snapped his hips, thrusting in hard each time, eliciting little grunts and moans from his brother’s throat, even as his own pleasure began to build. He nosed at the point where throat met shoulder and then bit down hard, harder than he would normally have done, a clear indication of his possession of this amazing man beneath him. He knew it wasn’t the pain, as Mycroft didn’t get off on that, but the act of possessiveness must have struck to the core as his brother stiffened and cried out, coming untouched between them. He slowed his thrusts as Mycroft shuddered and shook through his orgasm, pressing softer kisses to his neck and chest.

He slipped out from the tight heat that was still contracting slightly around his cock, and then urged Mycroft to roll over. He shuffled them up on the bed until they were both kneeling, with the older man holding onto the headboard. Sherlock pushed himself back inside and then wrapped an arm around Mycroft’s chest to help anchor him as he thrust shallowly upwards. He nuzzled behind Mycroft’s ear, feeling goosebumps ripple down those freckle covered shoulders, and with his free hand his traced his way down over them, causing the flesh to break out into another wave of them. ”I’m never letting you go, Mycie,” he whispered into his ear, sucking gently on the lobe. “Nothing will ever keep us apart, ever.” His hips pistoned faster, the angle not entirely satisfying, but the need to have as much flesh as possible pressed against his lover’s body overriding his own needs.

One of Mycroft’s hands let go of the headboard and he snaked it behind them to grasp at one of Sherlock’s plush arse cheeks. He squeezed tightly, and gasped, “Always yours, brother mine. I love you.”

“Fuck, Mycie, I love you too, so fucking much that it scares me.” His voice had started to stutter as he felt his balls begin to draw up against his body, and pressure began to build in the base of his spine. “I never thought I’d _feel_ like this, but now I do and it doesn’t stop, my feelings for you get more and more intense as every day passes and I don’t think it’s normal, but I don’t care because _we’re_ not normal and the things you do to me, the things you make me feel, and want, and _need_ , and they’re all because of _you_ , and I can’t ever lose that, I need you always, Mycie, and I will love you until my dying fucking breath and then some because it will always be me and you, forever.” His sentimental drivel only came to an end as he gasped and cried out as he came, filling Mycroft will his seed, his arms tightening around him.

They knelt there, breathing heavily, until Sherlock’s cock softened and slipped from his brother’s body, causing the mess he’d left behind to start to trickle down his brother’s thigh. “Ewww,” Mycroft moaned, reaching for the box of tissues on the bedside table. He giggled as he cleaned himself up, noticing Sherlock’s discontented huff. “Apologies, brother, but it’s sticky and gross.”

“ _Fine_ , don’t appreciate my gift,” he replied, but there was a twinkle in his eye that assured the older man he was joking.

Mycroft turned around and pulled Sherlock to him, kissing him gently. “Thank you, Sherlock, for giving me what I needed. And for _telling_ me what I needed to hear.”

He managed to look bashful. “You didn’t mind it being overly sentimental and emotional?”

His brother shook his head and kissed him again. “I’ve told you before, when it comes to you and me, I _can do_ sentiment. And I rather quite like it. Everything you said, I can assure you I feel the same.” He stretched, the joints in his shoulders popping. “Would you like some breakfast?” he asked, throwing the tissues into the bin.

“How about a shower first?” He waggled his eyebrows at his older sibling suggestively.

Mycroft laughed. “A shower sounds divine, but don’t be disappointed when this old man can’t get hard again yet.”

“Oh brother,” Sherlock purred, slotting his thigh in between his brother’s legs. “I think you underestimate how convincing I can be when I’m trying to apologise to you.”

“There’s no need, Sherlock. We’ve _both_ apologised - let’s just let the matter lie now.”

“How about you wait until the _end_ of our shower to say that?”

He gave him an indulgent smile and kissed him again. “Very well then. Let’s see just how convincing you can be.”

With a grin, Sherlock pulled Mycroft off the bed and hurried them to the bathroom.

 

 


	25. Chapter 25

Mycroft lay in bed, holding his brother in his arms and feeling thankful that they had been able to work past the...disagreement? Hurt? Fight? Argument? He wasn’t too sure what to call the situation they’d found themselves in, and the fact that it challenged even his extensive vocabulary showed just how complicated it was. Sherlock had apologised profusely, and not just once, and - although Mycroft believed he’d had genuine cause to be upset - he himself had also professed his regret for his actions, knowing he’d overreacted to some degree. But then, he always _had_ when it came to his brother’s safety. Kidnapping army doctors and whisking them away to abandoned warehouses wasn’t exactly what normal people did when their siblings made a new friend. He hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d told Sherlock the extent he would go to to keep him safe, but he’d still treated his brother too harshly.

He’d done everything he could to make it up to him. After a phone call to Anthea to discuss the likelihood of Elliott resurfacing so quickly after his injuries, and having Major Barrymore weigh in via a video conference, they had decided that the probability was slim. Of course, no one knew for sure exactly what the ex-agent was capable of, so although Mycroft had decided that Mark could have the night off, he agreed when Anthea suggested an additional two men to stand watch over the townhouse. After satisfying everyone’s needs for additional security, he also satisfied his own needs to have some alone time with Sherlock.

They had ordered in dinner, and then had spent the evening watching a movie, before retiring rather early for bed. He’d thoroughly enjoyed the feeling earlier of having Sherlock lay claim to him, to possess him entirely, to make him fully aware that they were entwined, in more ways than just the physical. The evening, however, was about apologising to Sherlock, no matter how much the younger man protested that there was no need for such a thing. He’d been adamant; the way he’d kept Sherlock at an arm’s length hadn’t been fair, no matter _how_ upset he’d been, and it was unforgivable. They were partners, had made a commitment to each other, and had promised they would deal with what life had thrown at them _together._ Mycroft had completely disregarded that, and he was going to make up for it, whether Sherlock liked it or not.

Of course, his younger brother had been _more_ than happy with how the night’s events had unfolded. Mycroft had directed all of his focus on pleasuring Sherlock, and he had taken his time about it. He caressed, worshipped, and yes - downright teased - him, until his brother had been a boneless, sobbing wreck, begging for release. When Mycroft had finally pushed him over the edge, his orgasm had been so intense that he’d actually blacked out for a few seconds. He’d come to to find Mycroft cradling him in his arms, running his fingers through his hair, and looking relieved that he’d not been out for longer. The detective had given him a sloppy grin and reached up to touch Mycroft’s cheek with the back of his fingers. “Fucking hell, Mycie,” he’d muttered. “ _Apology accepted_.”

They’d shared another shower together, Mycroft taking care of his own erection by slathering conditioner between Sherlock’s thighs and fucking between the slippery limbs. Once they were both cleaned off, they’d retired to bed properly, and lay awake talking until the early hours of the morning. Sherlock had asked if Mycroft would be returning to work the following day, but now that they had healed the rift between them, the diplomat decided that England wouldn’t fall if he did take the remainder of the week off. “Perhaps we could visit Eurus?” the curly haired genius had suggested, tracing patterns on Mycroft’s chest in the dark.

“You know you can visit her whenever you wish, Sherlock.”

“I know, but I’d like it if you came as well.”

He’d sighed, always wary of the subject. “You know it’s not as...easy, when I’m there. You seem to enjoy yourselves more when it’s the two of you alone.”

“I know, but the more you come to visit her, the easier it will get. She doesn’t blame you, Mycie.”

“So she says, but at the end of the day, it’s on my orders that she’s there.”

“Uncle Rudi put her there in the first place.”

“Yes, and then I kept her there.”

“True, but she understands why. I’m sure you’ve had reports from Dawson about how well behaved she’s been lately.”

“I have, no thanks to you.”

“Really, I’m following your example...giving her treats.”

Mycroft stiffened suddenly, but relaxed a little when he realised there was no malice in Sherlock’s tone, just facts.

“They do seem to be the best way to get her to cooperate,” Sherlock had continued. “I’m hoping if we go tomorrow, she’ll be allowed in the exercise yard again.” Mycroft could feel his brother smiling against his shoulder and he knew he would do anything to keep Sherlock this happy.

“Of course we can go and visit her then. I should check in with Governor Dawson anyway, so perhaps you two could enjoy some time in the sun and I could join you afterwards?”

“That would be perfect. I have an idea for Mummy’s birthday present and it will need all three of us.”

He’d raised an eyebrow, even though Sherlock couldn’t see the gesture. “Oh? And what would that be?”

An elbow nudged him in the ribs. “No need to panic, nothing that will jeopardise the safety of the free world.”

“I certainly hope not.”

“It’s just a photograph of all of us, Mycie. I thought Mummy would like a current picture of all her children together. We could give it to her when we go to visit Eurus for Mummy’s birthday.”

Mycroft considered this, and found he couldn’t fault the idea. Dawson would certainly see no harm in it either. “I’m happy to have a photo taken, but you’ll need to clear it first with the Governor. He’s in charge and if he says no, you’ll need to respect that.”

“Why would he say no?”

“I don’t think he will, Sherlock. But just be prepared for anything.”

He felt lips press against his cheeks. “You sound like a scout leader,” Sherlock teased him. Mycroft then felt the distinctive press of an erection against his thigh.

“Oh, God, no, Sherlock - no!” He tried to keep his voice stern and free of the laughter that was threatening to burst forth. “I am _not_ indulging in that sort of role play!”

Sherlock pulled himself up onto his elbows so he could look down on him, the faint light from the gap in the curtains illuminating his face. His eyes had gone wide and innocent, and he chewed on his lip coquettishly. “Oh, but you’re just the bestest den leader a little boy could ask for, sir.”

Mycroft snorted and pushed him away. “Not my cup of tea, brother mine. Now why don’t we try and get some sleep?”

“Oh, but…” Sherlock reached over and had grabbed Mycroft’s hand, bringing it to lay on top of his hard cock.

“Honestly, it’s already been twice today. We’re not teenagers anymore!”

“No, we’re not. But I _am_ naked, in bed with the sexiest man in the world, who is _also_ naked. How could I _not_ get hard?”

Mycroft had felt his own cock start to stir again and had groaned as his lover had started rutting against his palm. “You do know that Eurus will read every detail from us tomorrow?”

“Our dear sister is all alone in there, Mycroft. Let her live vicariously through us.”

“Oh, bloody hell, I am going to burn in the deepest pits of hell,” he’d muttered, as Sherlock had rubbed him to full hardness.

“You’ll have some delicious company,” Sherlock purred, and then had shimmied down the bed, heading for the space between Mycroft’s thighs.

Now, as the morning sun streamed through the curtains, Mycroft stretched as much as he could, feeling the delicious burn in his muscles and most intimate parts. Sherlock was curled up against him, an arm slung over his waist to keep his older brother from rolling away during the night. He felt much lighter than he had for weeks. The fear of Elliott, the confusion over Jonathon, and the few issues that had cropped up between he and his lover all seemed to melt away. Sherlock mumbled in his sleep, and nuzzled in closer, and Mycroft was overcome by sheer happiness. It wouldn’t always be easy, and there would be challenges, but to have this glorious man at his side made everything thrown at him worth it. He pressed a kiss to ebony curls and closed his eyes, content to catch a few more minutes sleep with Sherlock in his arms.


	26. Chapter 26

Governor Dawson looked up with a smile as the brothers entered his office. “Mr Holmes,” he greeted Mycroft with a polite nod. “Good to see you again. Sherlock.” He gave the detective a small smile, their relationship becoming quite amicable since his presence was having such a positive impact on his most dangerous inmate.

“Governor,” Mycroft said in reply, extending a hand. They shook and he gestured to the conference table on the opposite side of the office. “Do you mind if I set up?” He’d already explained he would be running his periodic security audit whilst he was visiting.

“Certainly. I assume you’ll both be visiting with your sister today?”

“I’ll call in briefly once I’m done here. Sherlock however will be seeing her as per normal,” he explained.

“Of course. She was extremely helpful this week when it came to analysing some data MI6 sent us out of North Korea. I think that warrants an even longer jaunt outside, don’t you? Shall we say forty five minutes?”

Sherlock broke into a grin. “She’ll be overjoyed. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and see her now.” He took a single step in Mycroft’s direction, automatically going to give him a peck goodbye. As soon as his body had began to move, he caught himself and so it looked like an almost awkward shuffle as he headed for the door; the Governor throwing him an odd look while Mycroft shook his head in fond exasperation. He knew his mind started to grow lax when he was happy and content, and he berated himself for not being more on guard. Other than the potential for giving themselves away (not really a risk just now as he’d been at least ten paces from Mycroft so there had been ample time to come to his senses), but with Elliott still on the loose, he needed to remain alert at all times until the madman was caught. He owed his brother that at the very least.

He made his way down to the lower levels, almost on autopilot, his feet knowing the way. He nodded at the guards stationed along the way, most of them recognising him by now. Soon he could hear the faint strains of the violin echoing through the halls and he found his heart soaring. Since the devastating events almost a year ago, Eurus hadn’t played her instrument without Sherlock being present. She seemed happy enough to participate in duets with him, but hadn’t shown an interest in indulging when he wasn’t there. The guards he’d first encountered had hated her playing, and would wear headphones to block out the noise. They had been replaced after control had been wrestled back from Eurus, and new guards hired. No one was wearing headphones that he could see now so either they didn’t mind the music, or she hadn’t been playing without pause this time and so they weren’t quite sick of it yet. Either way, Sherlock was delighted that she was now finding solace in her music once more.

He reached the outer door to her cell and the guard there nodded at him. “Morning, Mr Holmes. The Governor has instructed us that your sister is allowed into the exercise compound today so just let us know when you want to go.”

“Thanks, Billy,” he said with a smile. He figured it didn’t hurt for him to be extra polite to the guards who watched over Eurus, and so he made sure to know all their names. He didn’t think the new (well, not so new anymore) Governor would allow any of the inmates under his care be mistreated in any way, but no one could be totally omniscient. Befriending the staff allowed Sherlock to vette them himself and to raise any concerns directly with Dawson.

The door was opened and he strode into the room, taking in the serene expression on his sister’s face as she played, standing facing out. Her eyes were closed and her arm didn’t falter as she moved the bow over the strings. Sherlock waited patiently, enjoying the melody as the piece drew to a close. The final notes hung in the air and then suddenly her eyes snapped open, locking him with her piercing gaze. Sherlock felt his breath catch as just for a moment, he was transported back in time to when she had taken them captive and had toyed with their emotions and their lives. Then her gaze softened ever so slightly, and she gave him a small smile. “Brother,” she greeted him, turning to place the instrument back into its case.

He let out the breath slowly, shaking away the disconcerted feeling. “Eurus. Have you been well?”

“I have,” she replied, stepping up to the glass. “I had a very interesting puzzle to solve this week so it made things...quieter.” Her eyes searched his and he knew she was deducing the stress and worry on his features. “You have not, though.”

“No, I haven’t.” There was no point denying it. “Shall we head outside so we can discuss it there?”

“As you wish.” 

It didn't take long for Sherlock to advise Billy and his colleagues that they were ready and they began the process of restraining Eurus so they could escort her up to the top. She breathed in deeply as they stepped outside, and as soon as the door had been locked, they headed over to the same spot as before, sitting down on the slightly damp grass.

“Tell me,” she demanded as soon as they were seated.

He sighed and launched into the story, giving her the basic overview and trying to keep his own emotions from the retelling. He was surprised when Eurus actually snarled when he told her about Elliott’s confrontation with them. He reached over and touched her wrist. “Are you okay?”

“That bastard,” she growled. “If I ever see him, I’ll kill him myself!” He broke out into a peal of laughter, doubling over when she turned a confused face to his. “What’s so funny?” she demanded.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, trying to gain control back. “It’s just I’m not used to seeing you so protective over us, or Mycroft to be more specific. You know the whole ‘try and make Sherlock kill Mycroft’ thing and all.”

She glared at him but after a long moment, her mouth twitched into a chagrined smile. “Yes, well, that’s in the past now,” she said airily. “You know no one is allowed to kill my brothers unless it’s  _ me _ .”

“Oh, of course, sis. No one else gets that honour but you.”

They started giggling together and suddenly the threat of the deranged agent didn’t seem as dire as it had. Sherlock knew as soon as he left, reality would come at him with a slap in the face, but for now, it felt good to laugh. It helped that Eurus squealed in delight as he explained how he’d gouged out Elliott’s eye, and they lost themselves for several long minutes in discussing the physiological ramifications of such an injury. Mycroft didn’t share their delight with the macabre so it was a treat to have someone he could indulge with.

He finished the tale by telling her about why Mycroft had gotten upset with him. She shrugged, “I would have done the exact same thing if I was in your position, though even with as angry as you are,  _ I _ would take a lot more pleasure in killing him.”

Sherlock coughed, not wanting to argue with the more experienced murderer about how much enjoyment he’d get from killing this particular man. “Anyway,” he said, a little awkwardly, “we’ve cleared the air now, so we just have to concentrate on finding this bastard.”

“From the looks of it, you enjoyed the making up part.”

He blushed and looked away. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he declared.

“If the first time wasn’t memorable for you, I would have thought the second and third times would have lodged themselves into your memory.”

It was his turn to glare at her. “You know it’s not polite to deduce someone’s sexual activities, don’t you? I mean, even  _ I _ know that!”

She grinned. “Oh, Sherlock, but it’s so much  _ fun _ to watch you squirm!”

Again he had a momentary vision of the Eurus from a year ago, malice behind her words and dark eyes glistening with excitement. He shook his head to clear it, and concentrated on his sister who was sitting demurely as one could be when shackled beside him. “Still, I don’t mention it when it’s clear you’ve been...well, you know…”

“Masturbating?” she asked brightly.

His cheeks burned even brighter. “Yes, that. I don’t bring it up because it’s not polite.”

“You brought it up now.”

“Yes, but only to make a point that  _ I don’t bring it up _ .”

“Oh, Sherlock, you’re so funny. You’ve turned into a blushing virgin over the thought of your sister rubbing herself off but you regularly rub yourself off on your brother.”

He swallowed the wrong way in shock and spent the next minute coughing and pounding on his chest, his eyes streaming. The door to the compound opened and four guards rushed in, obviously making sure the inmate wasn’t killing him. “I’m fine,” he wheezed, holding up a hand. “Swallowed. Wrong way.” They finally nodded and went back to their stations, the door locking behind them. “You’re incorrigible,” he told her.

She giggled. “You seem to bring out the worst in me, little brother.”

He refrained from saying that he’d seen her worst and this was no where near close to it, not wanting to always bring up the past. “Could we just pretend this whole conversation didn’t just happen? There are some things I don’t need to hear about.”

“Of course - I’ll save the hearing for that delightful Billy man.” His eyes widened as he realised what she was saying. She winked. “He does so enjoy my little performances. Blushes more than you when he brings me my dinner.”

Choosing not to comment (she had to pass the time  _ somehow _ he supposed), he changed the subject. “It’s Mummy’s birthday soon so the next time I visit, everyone will be here. I hope that’s okay.”

She nodded. “It will be good to see our parents again. Will Mycroft come as well?”

“Of course.”

Her face became sad for a moment, and she fiddled with a blade of grass. “He hardly comes to see me.”

“He still thinks you don’t want to see him,” he said, delicately. There was no need to spell out why.

“But you know that’s not true.”

“I do, and I tell him that. He’s actually here, now. Speaking to the Governor.”

She looked at him, her eyes wide with hope. “Is he going to come and see me afterwards?”

He smiled and reached over to squeeze her hand. “Yes he is.” He knew that as smart as he seemed to the outside world, Mycroft was the only one who could come close to stimulating Eurus intellectually. She enjoyed Sherlock’s visits, but when she saw Mycroft, the noise in her head was dampened even more. It seemed their brother had the same effect on both of them in that regard.

“Shall we head back down so he knows where to find us?” she asked.

There was the sound of the lock disengaging and the door to the compound swung open. “Please stay a little longer,” Mycroft said as he stepped into the courtyard. “I’ve only just gotten here.”

 


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning - sibling fluffiness ahead.

Mycroft left Dawson’s office, pleased with how things were being run. He’d made a couple of suggestions, but otherwise, the man had everything under control. The oldest Holmes sibling would make no apologies for his (most likely overbearing) regular security audits of the compound. He refused to let down his guard again, to risk history repeating. The world needed to be kept safe from Eurus, but his sister also needed to be protected from the world. 

As he made his way to her cell, he mused over how no one saw just how much his feelings towards Eurus were conflicting. Apart from Sherlock, of course. Mummy had thought him a monster for keeping her locked away; his colleagues thought him heartless and efficient; the previous Governor had thought him uncaring and dismissive. Even John, who had been involved in the whole scenario, couldn’t see it, even though Mycroft had been rather clear when he’d threatened the Governor ( _ If the safety of my sister is compromised; if the security of my sister is compromised; if the incarceration of my sister is compromised...).  _ How hard was it to understand that just because he kept her imprisoned so she couldn’t harm anyone else, it didn't mean he didn’t  _ care _ about her. She was his baby sister, and although they had never developed the same bond that he and Sherlock had, he loved her a great deal. She may be locked away, but he would ensure that she was  _ safe _ .

The guard outside the door advised him that his siblings had gone up to the exercise compound, and instead of waiting there, he chose to join them. Getting the photo outside would be much nicer than having it taken inside. Besides, the main benefit to the privilege of having time in the exercise yard was that contact was allowed. Dawson had a psychology degree and understood the importance of human touch, and it was clear to Mycroft that he was rewarding her more with that than with being allowed in the fresh air. A photo with three inches of solid glass between would just further compound the divide.

As he arrived at the entrance to the exercise compound, he observed Sherlock and Eurus on the monitor. He caught his name on her lips and the sad expression on his sister’s face. He knew immediately it had been the right decision to come up here. Time to be the big brother he’d never had the chance to be. He nodded at the guard to open the door, and as it began to swing open, he heard Eurus suggest they head back. He stepped outside and stood on the marks necessary so the door could be closed. “Please stay a little longer. I’ve only just got here.”

Sherlock beamed over at him, and Mycroft recognised the twitch of his fingers that indicated he was wanting to touch, to make contact, to simply connect. His own fingers were doing the same. Eurus’ eyes had gone wide, and she suddenly looked like a child again. The door clicked shut behind him and he crossed the short clipped grass to where they were sitting. “Brother,” Sherlock greeted him, his blue-green eyes glorious in the sunshine.

Mycroft shrugged off his jacket, unwilling to sit directly on the damp grass and folded it neatly, before he sank down onto it. He saw the appreciative flicker of Sherlock’s eyes to his sleeves and he smiled, shaking his head slightly. “You and sleeve garters,” he murmured. 

“I can’t help it if I appreciate the finer things in life, Mycie,” Sherlock retorted loftily. He then leered at him. “And the way you dress is definitely one of them.”

“I suppose I’m lucky you think so, not many people find it such a turn on.”

“I can assure you I do,” he almost purred. “Do you need proof?”

Mycroft couldn’t help a glance down at Sherlock’s trousers. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“Are you two going to have sex now?” Eurus squealed, clapping her hands together. “Can I watch?”

He felt his cheeks going bright red, and Sherlock threw back his head and bellowed out a laugh. “Apologies, sister,” Mycroft stuttered. “We’re usually better at keeping our affections to ourselves.”

“No need to apologise, Mycroft,” she told him, suddenly serious. “I’ve only ever seen you serious and severe. It’s good to see you like this - it explains how Sherlock feels about you.”

“Oh, your expression was priceless,” Sherlock gasped, wiping wetness from his cheeks as he continued to giggle. “Like a deer caught in headlights.”

“I’ve already sunk quite deep into the depths of depravity, brother mine,” he said, dryly. “Forgive me for being shocked at the thought of sinking even further.”

“Oh, you’re no pastor’s wife, Mycie. I know for a fact you rather enjoy your depravity.”

“True, but there’s no need for our bad habits to rub off on our sister.” He watched as Sherlock and Eurus exchanged a look and then started to laugh again. He ran the sentence back over in his mind and shook his head in exasperation. “You two are utter children.” He fished out his phone. “Shall we take the photo now?” he suggested. He knew it would sound like he was changing the subject, but in reality he wanted to capture the joy on their faces. 

“Photo?” Eurus asked.

“For Mummy’s birthday,” Sherlock explained. “That’s a brilliant idea, Mycie. Here, let me set it on the timer and prop it up on the bench.” He took the phone from him and stood gracefully, striding over to the stone bench in the centre of the courtyard. Using his own phone to prop up his brother’s, he fiddled with the placement, asking the two of them to move this way and that until he was happy with the framing. Then he hit the timer and loped back over to them. “Quick, everyone into position. Eurus, you kneel there, I’ll be behind you, and Mycie behind me - just like the photo Mummy has of us from my first day at school.”

Eurus settled uncomfortably into position, and Mycroft’s heart swelled as Sherlock wrapped his arms around her from behind, his arms crossing over to cover hers. “Don’t worry,” he murmured to her. “I won’t let the restraints get in he shot.” She turned her head and gave him a shy smile, making Mycroft realise how much she wanted this photo to be entirely about the three children, and not a reminder to Mummy that her youngest was locked away for violently killing numerous people. “Quick, Mycie, up behind me,” Sherlock urged. 

Feeling a little self conscious at being so close to his brother in a semi-public place, Mycroft plastered his chest to Sherlock’s back and rested his hands on his upper arms. “Is it the left or right side?” he asked, trying to recall the photo Sherlock was hoping to recreate.”

“The right,” Sherlock told him, and then rested his own chin on Eurus’ right shoulder. Mycroft did the same, ebony curls tickling his cheek as he positioned his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. He could smell his shampoo, and fought the urge to turn his face and nuzzle against the soft skin of his neck. He concentrated on the burn in his thighs from his awkward position instead, caught in a half crouch so he was able to be seen above Sherlock, kneeling straight behind Eurus who was sitting on folded knees. There were a series of beeps from the phone, counting down and their faces lit up into genuine smiles. The shutter sounded, but they remained in position for another few seconds. “I love you both very much,” Sherlock said very quietly, almost to himself.

Mycroft moved his arms until he was hugging both of them, and squeezed tightly. “As do I.”

“You’re both being horribly sentimental,” Eurus complained, sitting up and breaking the embrace. She stood and brushed off her knees, her cheeks flushing a delicate shade of pink. “But if I was to allow myself a moment of weakness, I would admit that I’m glad I didn't kill either of you.” Both brothers grinned, aware that that was as close to a declaration of love as they’d get from their sister. “If either of you tell Mummy what I said, I’ll tell her that it was Sherlock who broke her favourite vase when he was four, and you helped cover it up, Mycroft.”

“Oh, that little tidbit can never come to light,” Mycroft told her solemnly. “I promise neither of our parents will ever know.”

She suddenly grinned. “Good. Now, let’s look at the photo in case we have to take it again.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sleeve garter fetish is real. I wrote this chapter, gosh, maybe three or four weeks ago? A fitting time to publish it after a lengthy FB discission on the sexiness of sleeve garters!


	28. Chapter 28

They had just gotten back to Mycroft’s place after their visit to Sherrinford when Sherlock’s phone chirped. He unlocked the screen to find a message from his flatmate. “John wants to know if I can take Rosie tonight? He’s been asked on a date. I can stay at Baker Street if it’s easier for you.”

Mycroft shook his head. “I think you should stay here, where we have security. Mark will be back tonight, as well as the men outside, and I don’t like the idea of splitting our resources. Is John okay with her being with us during the current situation?”

“I’m guessing he thinks it’s unlikely Elliott will be able to come after us with the injuries he has, but I’ll check to be sure.” 

_ We’re fine to have her here, but Mycroft wants to be sure you’re aware of the safety issues so you can make an informed decision - SH _

_ Mycroft’s place is a fucking fortress, plus I know he has extra security at the moment so I think she’ll be more than safe with you guys - JW _

_ Excellent. What time will you drop her off? - SH _

_ Is 5 okay? Meeting for an early dinner and may catch a movie afterwards - JW _

_ That’s fine. See you then - SH _

“He’s all good with it.” 

“Right, well how about I make us some lunch?” Mycroft suggested. “And then since we’ll have a full house tonight with both Mark and Rosamund, how about we have a little alone time while we can?”

Sherlock wrapped an arm around his brother’s waist and pulled him flush against him, nipping at his earlobe. “How about we skip lunch and head straight for the bedroom?”

“I suppose I can go without sustenance for a little while longer,” Mycroft acquiesced. 

Sherlock grinned and grabbed his hand, dragging him for the staircase.

~~~~~~~~

Rosie giggled manically as Mark ducked behind the chair, peeking out from behind it a moment later. The agent grinned at her and then left his hiding spot, stalking towards her. “The tickle monster is coming,” he said in a sing-song voice.

The toddler squealed and ran away as fast as her little legs could take her, heading for the safety of the brothers sitting on the couch. Mycroft’s phone started ringing, so Sherlock reached out and scooped Rosie into his arms, seeing that she had intended to throw herself into the older man’s lap to escape the horror of the tickle monster. He saw Mark’s demeanour change instantly to that of an alert agent, though Sherlock was positive that no matter how carefree and easygoing he appeared whilst playing with Rosie, his focus had always been on the safety of his charge.

“Anthea,” Mycroft greeted her. Sherlock held his finger up to his lips to indicate to Rosie she had to be quiet and then bopped the end of her nose with it. She giggled quietly, hiding her face against his chest, understanding well that Mycie wouldn’t play with her while he was on his phone. He hugged her close, listening in to his brother’s side of the conversation. “I see. Yes. Well, by all means, call him in - that  _ is _ what we recruited him for. Ah, yes, point well made.” His eyes flickered across to Sherlock briefly. “No, that won’t be possible, he’ll need to come here. Yes, exactly - I won’t split our security with the child here. Give him the details and tell him I’ll be expecting him. Yes, thank you, Anthea. Goodnight.”

“Trouble?” Sherlock asked once Mycroft had ended the call.

“No, not really. Lady Smallwood has a situation that she needs some advice on, and it’s the perfect opportunity to utilise Jonathon’s expertise. He’s not been officially briefed as yet about what will be expected of him, and the protocols he’ll need to follow, so I’ll need to do that before he sees her.”

“Why can’t she do it?”

Mycroft shook his head, but it was Mark who answered. “Not how it works, Sher. Mycroft recruited him, so he is the one who needs to do it.”

“So, he’ll be coming here then simply for an  _ induction _ ?” He knew it was only logical with the security issues, but it still posed some bigger problems - and not for him.

“Yes, but he won’t be here for long. It won’t take me long to go over what I have to.”

“No, that’s fine - I’ll just make sure to be bathing Rosie when he comes then. Let’s not confuse her if we don’t have too.”

Mycroft’s eyes went a little wider at this, and Mark chuckled. “Yeah, that would be hard to explain to a toddler,” he said.

“Mycie?” Rosie asked, holding her arms out to him. He nodded and she jumped from Sherlock’s lap onto his, earning an  _ oof _ from the older man. She giggled and plastered a sloppy, wet kiss on his cheek. 

“You are a menace, child,” he murmured, using one hand to pull free his handkerchief to wipe his cheek. She only giggled and then took the handkerchief from him, and started wiping all over his face. He grimaced but sat patiently as she ‘cleaned him up’.

Sherlock watched on, fascinated at how well his brother now was around Rosie. He found himself wishing that Eurus could see it, but then chased that thought away. As far as she had seemed to advance, there was no way he would ever let her near the child. He loved his sister, and he would do all he could for her, but he would never, ever trust her with anything precious to him. It was bad enough that she had deduced the nature of his relationship with Mycroft, but for anything that was in his control to protect, he would.

The doorbell rang and all three adults in the room froze. It was too soon for it to be Jonathon, but the security detail only had a very small list of people allowed to get that close to the house. Unless of course the security detail had been taken out…

Mark crossed to the monitor and his stance relaxed. “It’s John,” he announced. “I’ll get it,” he assured Mycroft who had started to move the child off his lap.

A minute later, John strode into the room, his face furious. “You arse,” he spat at Sherlock, jabbing a finger at him.

“John?” Mycroft asked, confused. “What’s wrong?”

“Your brother has decided to poke his huge nose into my love life, that's what's wrong!”

“My nose isn’t  _ huge _ ,” Sherlock protested, trying to keep the smile off his face. He knew John was mad, but he'd honestly been trying to help. His flatmate needed to face facts and he wasn't going to arrive to the correct conclusions on his own. 

“Sherlock, what did you do?” Mycroft asked, a note of exasperation in his voice, as he juggled Rosie who had gone from being excited at seeing her dad, to cringing back from his ‘angry voice’.

“He decided to edit my Tinder profile,” John snarled.

“I made a few small changes, designed to widen the range of your field,” Sherlock said in defence. “You obviously weren’t having any luck with the people you were matching with currently. I thought you might get along better if they had certain...attributes.”

“ _ Attributes _ ?” John demanded. “ _ Attributes?  _ My date tonight had a penis, Sherlock!”

Mycroft burst out laughing, but quickly suppressed it when the doctor’s glare was turned on him.

“Really, John, it’s not like you’ve not seen one before. I don’t see what the problem was.”

“My problem, Sherlock, is that the very pretty brunette who had been daintily sipping wine opposite me turned out to not be what the packaging indicated! My date was a transvestite!”

“Hadn’t you only been on the date for a couple of hours, John?” Mycroft asked. “How on earth did you discover that so quickly?”

“ _ Not _ the point, Mycroft,” the doctor snapped. 

“It just seems a little classless…”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I still fail to see what the issue is. You obviously found them attractive since you -” He paused, trying to remember the terminology, “- swiped right.”

“That’s not the point!” John thundered. Rosie squeaked and burrowed as close to Mycroft as she could, and Mark left the room, heading down the hall.

“Then what is?”

“Besides the fact that you took it upon yourself to interfere, which we  _ will _ be having words about later -” He ignored the muttered,  _ Aren’t we now? _ from Sherlock, “- my date had a dick! For the last time,  _ I am not gay _ ! I am not interested in men; I do not want to date a man; I do not want to sleep with a man. How hard is that to understand?”

Sherlock smirked as Mark showed Jonathon into the room and watched as John’s jaw dropped when he saw him. “It’s hard to understand, John, because the evidence suggests it’s not true.”

 


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, it's double treat Sunday!   
> Just a reminder as well that if you'd like an invite to the secret group on FB, drop me an email on scarletmanuka1@gmail.com and I'll send you an email invite. Just remember to let me know if the email addy you use for FB is different to the one you use for emailing so I send the invite to the right one :)

“Have I come at a bad time?” Jonathon asked, his eyes darting from Mycroft cradling a terrified child, to the small, angry doctor snarling at Sherlock.

“Not at all,” Mycroft assured the professor. He held Rosie out to John, but she whimpered and clung to him, not wanting to go to her father. “I have to chat to my friend, Rosamund,” he said softly to her. “You need to let me up.”

She looked over at Jonathon and then her head whipped around and looked at Sherlock. Her little face scrunched up in confusion as she noticed the similarities, mirroring the expression on her father’s face. “Sher Sher?” she asked eventually.

Mycroft handed her over to his brother, and she threw her arms around his neck, burying her face against his chest, and shooting shy glances at the stranger in the room who looked so very much like her beloved Sher Sher.

Mark was trying to contain his laughter, and doing a poor job of it, but he stifled it when Mycroft addressed him. “Mark, I’ll be in the study while I speak to Jonathon. There are two men on that perimeter so I would prefer you stay in here as long as John and Rosamund are with us. If they leave before I’m done, you’re welcome to join us then.”

“Of course, sir.”

He reached over and squeezed Sherlock’s hand briefly, a quick reminder that he had nothing to worry about, and then he stood from the couch. “Can I get you a tea or coffee?” he offered as he led Jonathon from the room.

“No thanks,” came the reply.

“Just in here,” he said, opening the door to his study and gesturing for the professor to enter. Deciding to keep it rather informal, he took a seat in one of the two chairs in front of his large, mahogany desk, and gave the man a small smile as he also sat.

“So, um, you have a daughter?” Jonathon asked.

“Who, Rosie? Oh, no, she’s John’s little girl – John is Sherlock’s flatmate. Oh dear, I just realised I didn’t introduce you. That’s terribly rude of me.”

“Oh, no, that’s okay.” He fidgeted a little in the chair, his eyes not quite meeting Mycroft’s. “It just looked like she was yours, that’s all. You’re, um, very good with her.”

“Sherlock is very fond of her and he has done his best to force me into becoming a sort of surrogate uncle to her. I wasn’t always comfortable with the idea, but she’s definitely grown on me.” He knew he didn’t owe his ex any explanations, but found himself wanting to be open and honest about any questions that Jonathon had about his life. He wasn’t ashamed of his relationship with Sherlock, despite what society said, and if he could help one person to understand it, then maybe one day, others would come to accept it as well.

“Do you think you two will have a child of your own?”

“I rather think that would be a little hard to explain to the masses,” he said with a shake of his head. “I’m sure Sherlock would love to, but it wouldn’t be fair to the child to expose them to that kind of scrutiny.”

“I guess I didn’t think of that. It’s not like any other gay couple, I suppose.”

“No, not really.”

Jonathon blushed suddenly. “Sorry,” he apologised. “That was very nosy of me.”

Mycroft smiled. “I don’t mind, honestly. As I said at the beginning, there’s only a handful of people we’ve trusted with the truth, and you’re one of them now. I want you to feel comfortable around me, and if you need to ask questions, then by all means, please do.”

“So John knows then? About your relationship?”

“Yes. He wasn’t overly accepting at the beginning –“  _ The understatement of the century _ , he thought to himself, “- but he’s come around to it.”

“That’s good, I suppose. It would be hard having to hide it from everyone. I know there’s still issues these days for the LGBT community, but we rarely ever have to hide anymore.”

“While my life would be much easier if I’d fallen in love with someone else, I wouldn’t change it for the world.” He smiled again, more to himself this time as he thought about how happy Sherlock made him. “So, I guess we should get down to business if Lady Smallwood is expecting you.”

“I suppose so.”

“Right, well it’s pretty straight forward what will be required,” and then he proceeded to outline the process.

~~~~~~

Sherlock watched as Mycroft left the room with Jonathon and fought down a wave of jealousy. The man had hardly even looked at him, and it was obvious he was still uncomfortable with the concept, even if he had accepted that his old flame was off limits. It didn’t really make Sherlock feel any better about it though, and he fought to shove the nauseas feeling down, knowing he had to get past his issues. He smiled at Mark as the agent made his way to stand outside in the hallway to give them some privacy but still be on guard, and then he looked across to John who was still gaping at him like a fish out of water. “Who the fuck was that?” his flatmate demanded.

“John,” Sherlock chided. “If you don’t want Rosie picking up your potty mouth, you’d better watch your language.”

The blonde glared at him, but he knew the lanky detective was right so he really couldn’t argue. “Are you going to answer my question?” he asked instead.

“He’s a colleague of Mycroft’s,” he replied, hoping to skip over the obvious.

Of course, John wasn’t going to allow the elephant in the room to lie. “Um, Sherlock, I’m not sure if you noticed, but that guy looks like your fuc…damn twin,” he finished, catching himself. “Is he some sort of body double for you to throw off Elliott?”

Ah drat, why hadn’t  _ he _ thought of that explanation? “Erm, no, no he is not.”

John’s eyes narrowed as he looked at him. “Why are you acting all cagey? What’s going on?”

He huffed out a sigh, and shifted Rosie on his lap so her knee wasn’t digging into his rib. “If you really must know, he and Mycroft used to be involved. They haven’t seen each other since university, but ran into each other at the conference.”

The doctor’s eyes widened again. “They slept together? But…he…you know, looks like…”

“Yes, John, I am more than aware of that.”

“So, even back in university he had a thing for you?”

“Yes. He thought that finding a… _ replacement _ would help, but it did not.”

“Wow,” the blonde stated, coming over and flopping down onto the couch. “So, how have you taken the news?”

“I admit I was worried at the beginning, considering the history between them, but I am slowly overcoming that.”

“Wow.”

“You are starting to repeat yourself, John. It is not an indication of intelligence.”

“Give me a break, Sherlock. It takes a moment to comprehend.”

“You’ve had sufficient moments.”

“Shall I get back to berating you for changing my dating profile then?”

“On second thoughts, take as much time as you need.” He kept his expression serious for all of two seconds, and then began giggling. A moment or two later, John joined in.

“This doesn’t mean I’m not still pissed at you.”

“You know at this rate, Rosie will sound like a pirate by the time she’s five?”

“She’ll probably fit right in with the other children then,” he said, dismissing his concerns. “Doesn’t negate the fact that I’m still angry.”

“I hardly see why.”

“Because  _ I’m not gay _ ! I’m not interested in men! How many times do I have to say it?”

“Repeating it doesn’t make it true, John. You were attracted to me, ergo you are attracted to men.”

“It was a one off!”

“Are you sure? Because Jonathon is single.”

“I don’t car- wait, what? He is? I –“ He suddenly shook his head. “No! I’m not doing this. My attraction to you was an anomaly, something that came about because of my emotional connection to you. I’m not gay.”

“Fine, whatever you say.”

“Do you swear not to fiddle with my profile again?”

He huffed out another sigh. “Yes, fine, I swear.”

“Good.”

“Just don’t come crying to me when you can’t find anyone you actually like.”

“As long as I get to say I told you so when I do.”

Sherlock smirked. “Go ahead, but I doubt I’ll be hearing it.”

“Don’t be such an arse.”

“Whatever you say. Do you want to stay for  dinner since your date finished early? Or do you want to take your little pirate home now?”

Sherlock pretended he didn’t see the flick of John’s eyes towards the hallway where Mycroft had led Jonathon. “I suppose we could stay for a little longer, if that’s okay.”

He grinned. “That’s no problem at all.”


	30. Chapter 30

Mycroft was surprised to see that John and Rosie were still there when he and Jonathon had finished. Considering the man’s anger towards Sherlock, it had looked like he would depart for Baker Street as soon as possible. Instead, he was sitting on the couch with the child on his lap, and was having an amicable conversation with Mark. Mycroft raised an eyebrow at that (he knew that the doctor still wasn’t overly fond of the young agent) but refrained from commenting, wondering instead where his brother was. Lady Smallwood had called Jonathon as they were finishing up to advise that her current meeting was running overtime and she would be late for theirs, so Mycroft had invited him to stay for a drink. He hoped Sherlock wouldn’t mind, as his brother had never been shy about expressing his displeasure. 

“John, I apologise for not making introductions earlier,” he began. “This is Jonathon Landsbury, a professor at UEL. Jonathon, Doctor John Watson, my brother’s flatmate and blogger.”

“Blogger?” the professor asked as he shook hands with the blushing ex-soldier.

“John writes up our cases and posts them to his blog,” Sherlock explained as he appeared in the doorway, a smirk on his lips at John’s expression. “It’s been very handy in attracting clients.”

“Clients? What sort of doctor are you?” Jonathon asked with a laugh.

“Oh, not medical cases,” John told him. “These clients are the ones that Sherlock takes on as his role as a detective. I help him with those when I can.”

“Detective? I didn't realise you were on the force,” Jonathon said to Sherlock. Mycroft couldn’t help his eyes from flickering between them both, feeling certain parts of his anatomy starting to wake up and take notice. He knew he’d have to learn to control that reaction but his libido was still a little overwhelmed by being surrounded by so many familiar features.

“I’m not,” his brother said, stepping forward so he was standing right next to Mycroft. The diplomat could feel his body heat and knew that it was an act of possession. Since it was one of the more subtle ones, he decided to let it slide. Of course, it wasn’t helping his semi-hard on at all - if anything, he felt it grow from the closeness. “I’m a Consulting Detective, the only one in the world. I do assist Scotland Yard when they need help, but I work private cases as well.”

“That sounds interesting.”

“It is. Won’t you be late for your meeting with the Smallwood lady?” Mycroft cringed at how abrupt his sibling could be at times.

“It’s been delayed a little,” Mycroft explained. “I’ve asked Jonathon to stay for a drink.”

“Oh. Well, in that case, why are we all standing around? Are you having scotch?”

“Sure, thanks,” the professor said, a little awkwardly. “Just a small one.”

“Please, have a seat,” Sherlock said, surprising Mycroft with his sudden hospitality and noticing he guided the man across to the couch to sit next to John. Several things clicked into place in his mind and he understood what his brother was up to. “Mycie, do you want a drink as well?”

“Thank you, that would be lovely.”

Mark and John shook their heads at the offer, and Sherlock poured two glasses while Mycroft took a seat on one of the armchairs. Sherlock passed out the beverages and then perched on the side of the armchair, almost sitting on Mycroft’s lap, one arm slung across the older man’s shoulders. “Isn’t this cosy,” Sherlock drawled, looking around the room.

Rosie had been sitting on John’s lap, staring at Jonathon, still quite unable to process what was going on. The child must have decided it was some form of witchcraft, as she climbed down off the couch and hurried over to the armchair where the brothers sat, and pressed her face against Mycroft’s legs, hiding her face. “I think our little menace is horribly confused,” Mycroft murmured, reaching down and pulling her up. “Rosamund,” he said softly, her little face looking up at him with utter trust, “I didn’t introduce you, either. That was very rude of me, wasn’t it?”

She nodded. “Rude Mycie!”

Sherlock laughed and ruffled her hair, causing her to scowl at him. “Rosie, the man over there is my friend, Jonathon,” Mycroft told her. “He works with me.”

“Looks like Sher Sher,” she said, sneaking another glance at the professor.

Mycroft blushed a vibrant red, and coughed. “Um, well, yes, I suppose he does.”

“Why?”

There was a sudden, very awkward silence in the room, as every man present knew why, but it felt somewhat crass to allude to it in polite company. And then Sherlock proved there was nothing polite about them and burst out into bellows of laughter, which set off the rest of them as well. Rosie frowned as she looked around, obviously thinking they were laughing at her. “Oh, my little scientist,” Sherlock said, wiping a tear from his cheek. “It’s just a coincidence.”

“A...conkydink?” She struggled with the big word.

“Coincidence - it means that there’s no reason for it. Jonathon and I just happen to look very alike, but we’re not exact.” She still looked confused and he leant over and kissed her on the nose. “It’s a science thing. I’ll explain all about genes and how they determine what we look like when you’re old enough to understand it. For now there’s nothing to worry about.”

She looked over once again at Jonathon, and then decided that since none of the adults were running, screaming from the room shouting ‘ _ There’s a witch! _ ’, it must be okay. She settled down in her favourite snuggle position with Mycroft, her thumb automatically going to her mouth.

Jonathon was shaking his head. “I still can’t get over how good you are with her.”

“Trust me, I’m just as shocked as you,” John told him. “Who would have thought the Holmes boys would have a nurturing bone in their bodies?”

“Jonathon.” Sherlock said in his rumbling baritone, making Mycroft’s breath hitch a little. “Did you know that John was an army doctor? He served in Afghanistan.”

“Really?” Jonathon said, turning to the blonde in interest.

Mycroft knew exactly where Sherlock was leading this. “Jonathon spent some time in Iraq,” he explained to the doctor, taking up the flag.

“Oh, what were you doing there?” John asked, his eyes fixed on the professor, seemingly unable to look away.

As Jonathon explained about his past, Mark stood and said quietly to Mycroft, “I’m just doing a sweep.”

He nodded and smiled at the agent, then turned his head so his lips were only centimetres from Sherlock’s ear. “You are a sly bastard, brother mine,” he whispered.

His brother grinned wickedly. “Perhaps, but it would tie things up nicely.”

He refrained from mentioning if it worked, Sherlock would have to see a lot more of Jonathon, not wanting to discuss that while the man in question was in the room with them. It was something they could talk about if anything actually happened between the men. Which could be a distinct possibility if the direction their conversation was taking was any indication.

“I’d love to talk with you about your experiences over there in more depth,” Jonathon was saying. “I try to deliver a rounded approach to my students, and it’s always been hard to find military personnel who are willing to talk about their  _ personal _ opinions.”

“I’m more than happy to have a chat,” John replied eagerly.

“That would be great. Here’s my card, give me a call tomorrow and we can set up a time that suits?”

“Sure.”

“Oh, sorry, that’s rather rude of me,” the professor said. “Tomorrow is Saturday. I don’t want to intrude on your weekend, as I’m sure you have plans. You can always just call me on Monday, or whenever you like really, I mean, it doesn’t  _ have _ to be Monday if that doesn’t work for you, it could be Tuesday, but as I said, you can call tomorrow if you want.”

Mycroft smirked, knowing that Jonathon rambled like that when he was nervous, so it was clear he was indeed interested in John. Things were starting to get  _ very  _ interesting.

“I'll call you tomorrow for sure,” John told him. 

“Thanks for the drink and the chat, Mycroft,” Jonathon said as he stood. “I’d better get going.”

“Of course. Did you drive yourself or catch a cab? If it’s the latter, I can have my driver take you?”

“Oh, no, it’s all good - Lady Smallwood sent a car for me. Well, it was nice meeting you John, and Rosie, of course.” He smiled at the little girl. “I’ll speak to you soon, Mycroft. Goodnight, Sherlock.”

Mycroft rose to see him out, not wanting to appear rude, but hurrying him out all the same since he was eager to get back to the sitting room. Sherlock would certainly be interrogating John and he didn't want to miss a second.

 


	31. Chapter 31

“Stop looking at me like that!”

“Like what?” Sherlock asked, innocently.

“Like that!” John almost shrieked, gesturing at his flatmate.

Sherlock imitated him, his arms flying everywhere. “That doesn’t actually explain what look I’m giving you.”

John made a frustrated growl in the back of his throat, and turned his head away from his friend, obviously sulking. Mycroft looked on in amusement from the doorway. “I believe the ‘look’ John was referring to, brother mine, is the one you get when you’re feeling extremely smug about something you’ve correctly deduced and feel the need to rub it in everyone’s faces.”

“ _ Yes! _ ” John crowed, turning to point at Sherlock. “He’s described it exactly!”

“I do  _ not _ have a look like that!” the detective protested. 

“Yes, dear, you do,” the older man told him. He crossed to the armchair and dropped a kiss on his lips. “But I still love you.”

“Me want kiss too!” Rosie demanded from where she sat, perched on Sherlock’s knees. 

Mycroft regarded her regally. “Do you now?”

“Mycie, kiss!”

“You can’t just demand kisses, young lady. Where are your manners?”

She regarded him seriously. “Kiss, pwease?” she said finally.

He nodded and leant down to kiss the tip of her nose. “That’s better.”

She turned to tug on the younger Holmes’ shirt. “Kiss, Sher Sher? Pwease?”

His lips quirked into a smile and he lifted her up to kiss her on the cheek, turning it into a raspberry. She giggled manically and then pulled out of his grasp and climbed down. “Now kiss from Daddy!” She ran across to John and he scooped her up into his arms and covered her face in kisses. 

“As adorable a distraction as that was,” Sherlock rumbled in his deep baritone, “It doesn’t detract from the fact that John’s clearly interested in Jonathon.”

The doctor glared at him, but didn't deny it. He was in a room with two Holmeses - what would be the point? “It also doesn’t detract from the fact that you have a ‘look’,” John retorted.

Before the argument could kick off again, Mycroft changed the subject. “It’s late, and I’m sure Rosamund is getting hungry. Shall we order in something for dinner?”

“Did someone mention food?” Mark had appeared in the doorway, back from doing his security sweep. “I’m starved.”

“My vote is for that curry place down the road,” Sherlock said.

“I could murder a curry,” John agreed.

“I’ll place an order then,” Mycroft said, and went to find the menu. It didn't take long for him to make the call and when he returned to the sitting room, Sherlock was back to hounding the doctor about his interest in the professor. 

“I think you should meet him for drinks tomorrow night. We can have Rosie again.”

“I hardly think a pub is an appropriate place to have that sort of discussion.”

“Then maybe you should go back to his place…”

“Sherlock!” John warned, a note of exasperation in his voice.

“What? Why are you denying that you’re interested in him?”

“I’m not, okay! I just would prefer to navigate this without an audience.” He sighed, the fight suddenly going out of him. “This is new territory for me, Sherlock, and it  _ scares _ me. Can you please just lay off for a bit? It’ll be hard enough finding the courage to take the leap, without dealing with your ‘I told you so’s.”

As much as he tried to hide it, Mycroft could still see the smugness on Sherlock’s face at John’s admission. He managed to keep it from his voice as he promise, “Of course, John. Sorry for pushing the issue.” 

Mycroft and Mark shared a look at the detective’s unexpected apology, but neither commented. “Is dinner being delivered?” Mark asked instead. “If so, I’ll make sure the team outside know we’re expecting them, otherwise the poor driver might get a bit of a fright when he’s tackled to the ground.”

“Yes, it is. ETA if fifteen minutes.”

“Rightio then, I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

Mark left to go outside, John asked Sherlock if he’d heard from Lestrade lately, and Mycroft sat himself down, allowing Rosie to crawl up into his lap. He felt an odd sense of contentment settle over him as he realised that against all the odds, he’d ended up with an odd little family unit. It was never something he’d expected, but now that he had it, he’d do everything he could to protect it.

~~~~~~~

It was much later - John and Rosie had left hours ago, Mark had retired for the evening, and Sherlock had spent an hour and a half in his lab before coming up to join Mycroft in bed. The older man put down the book he was reading and smiled as Sherlock yawned widely, then started to strip off. He dropped his clothes where they fell, not bothering to hang them up, and then climbed into bed, completely naked. Mycroft shook his head at his brother’s complete lack of decency - they had a house guest after all. He himself had dressed in his favourite satin pyjamas in case they were roused in the middle of the night. 

Sherlock turned off the lamp, and scooted over until he was pressed up against Mycroft. Long fingers trailed over the cool, smooth material of his pyjama top, and his nipples hardened as the pads of his fingers dragged over them. “Tonight turned out better than I expected,” Sherlock said quietly.

“How so?”

“Well, I wasn’t overly happy that you had to see Jonathon tonight.”

“I couldn’t tell,” Mycroft drawled.

“But then when John saw him...well, the plan pretty much made itself.”

“You do know that it might not work out, right? Just because Jonathon  _ looks _ like you, and is intelligent, his personality is completely the opposite to yours.”

“Which is a bonus, is it not?”

“Well, John may think so…”

“Exactly!”

“Yes, but have you thought about the other concerns?”

“Such as?” 

Sherlock’s fingers had dropped lower and had dipped under the hem of his top, dragging across his stomach. The sensation was divine and it threatened to distract him from his thoughts. “Such as if he and John  _ do _ form a relationship, running into Jonathon is going to become a fairly regular occurrence. He’s not exactly your favourite person in the world.”

He felt his brother shrug. “My biggest concern with him is that he still wants in your pants. If he’s already occupied with what John has in  _ his _ pants, then I think I’ll be okay.” The fingers started to move even lower, brushing under the waistband of his pyjama bottoms, tickling the trail of hair leading from his navel down to his groin. Sherlock nipped at Mycroft’s earlobe and then sucked it into his mouth. He let it go with a  _ pop _ and then whispered, his voice low and sultry, “What other  _ concerns _ did you have? Or am I free to ravish you yet?”

Swallowing hard, but determined to not get sidetracked, he said, “Do you think John would just be using Jonathon as a distraction like I was?”

“Perhaps, but that’s not my problem,” Sherlock said, licking a stripe down his neck, his fingers busy unbuttoning the top buttons of the pyjama top so he could expose Mycroft’s collarbones. 

“You’re not worried that he won’t stay interested? I lost interest after only a few months, after all. John may do the same.” It was getting rather hard to breathe, let alone talk as his brother lay open mouthed kisses to his chest.

Several more buttons were flicked open. “That won’t happen this time.”

“And why not?” His voice was decidedly ragged, and his erection was throbbing against the satin of his trousers. 

“Because he’s not you, Mycie.” He paused to suck a nipple into his mouth while his long slender fingers undid the last button, allowing him to push the material to the side. “You needed the distraction from the attraction you felt towards your underage sibling. John may have been initially attracted to him due to his resemblance to me, but I think you’ll find that it will be the  _ differences _ that will ensure his continued attraction.”

“How can you be so sure?” His voice broke on the last word as one hand dropped even lower and wrapped around his shaft.

“I can’t be,” he admitted. “But I’m confident that John will remain interested.” He moved his head up again, his lips dragging across the slightly stubbled surface of Mycroft’s neck, over his chin, until he could capture him in a scorching kiss. “Are you done now?” he asked as he broke away.

“I suppose so,” he said, gasping as his bollocks were tugged on gently.

“Excellent.” Sherlock let go of him and moved so he was kneeling above him. His own dripping erection was suddenly in front of Mycroft’s face, and Sherlock grasped it and smeared the tip across Mycroft’s lips. “Because I have need of your mouth, so it will be too busy for any more talking.”

With such a tantalising treat right in front of him, what else could Mycroft do but open wide and swallow it down?

 


	32. Chapter 32

The next week was rather uneventful, causing Sherlock to grow more and more snappy. It wasn’t due to boredom (not this time, anyway), but because he was wound as tight as one of his violin strings, waiting to see when Elliott would strike. They’d not had any sign of the man - it was as if he’d fallen off the face of the earth. Instead of feeling relief, Sherlock was instead left wondering when the man was going to strike next. They tried their best to not let it affect their day to day lives, but at the end of the day, when a crazed, steroid pumped, ex-MI5 agent was hell bent on exacting revenge, it was hard  _ not  _ to. 

For one, Mycroft had given Mark two days off, citing something along the lines of  _ fair work laws _ . Anthea had issued a replacement to shadow Mycroft, but it had meant that they had had to act as if there was nothing more to their relationship but brotherly love. It had driven Sherlock mad, especially when he’d been caught by the agent trying to sneak into Mycroft’s room that night (he  _ hated _ having to stay in one of the guest bedrooms). He’d convinced the man he was only checking on his brother, but it was then clear that there would be no chance of any alone time with his lover. 

It had seemed the longest two days of his life, and when Mark arrived back, Sherlock had launched himself at him and hugged him half to death. The young agent had choked under the bear hug, obviously confused as to the depth of Sherlock’s emotion. As soon as Mycroft had finished his briefing of Mark and had dismissed his replacement, Sherlock had all but picked Mycroft up and carried him to his bedroom, like some sort of caveman. He’d then proceeded to make up for lost time, and had reduced his brother to a quivering, moaning, mess in no time at all. 

John had called Jonathon the following day after they’d met, but because of the work he was being asked to do for Lady Smallwood, the professor hadn’t yet had any free time to meet with the army doctor. Despite admitting to an attraction to the man, John hadn’t seemed too upset that their first assignation was going to be delayed. In fact, he seemed completely blase about the whole thing. It had irked Sherlock to no end, and he had snapped and snarled at everyone who had even dared speak to him that day, even Mycroft. Having both his flatmate and his brother’s ex caught up in each other would surely only make his life easier, but it didn’t seem like it was going to happen in a hurry.

On top of everything else, there was the matter of Mummy’s birthday party. They were to leave Friday morning and visit Eurus is Sherrinford, and then would head to their parent’s house to help set up for the party which would be on Sunday. Mycroft had explained to them about the extra security and gave a brief explanation about the threat to both he and Sherlock (no real details, only that he had used to work for him and had a grudge against the diplomat, and that Sherlock had injured him during an attack). He had offered for both of them to skip the party so there was no chance of bringing trouble with them, but Mummy would hear nothing of it. She only got to turn 70 once and she wanted her boys there for it. Mycroft assured her that his security team would be as unobtrusive as possible, and that it was only Mark who would really be noticed. Mummy agreed they could tell everyone he was a family friend so they could avoid any Holmseian gossip.

The worst part about the party though was that it was yet another occasion where they had to revert back to their original relationship. They’d be able to sneak more time alone than when the replacement agent was there, but it wouldn’t be much more. John and Rosie were attending so it would mean sharing a room again, but because of the security measures and needing to have the agent close, Mark would be kipping on the blowup mattress on the floor. Last time they had visited, the fact that their parents had downgraded from Musgrave to a modest three bedroom house had been a blessing, but this time round an extra bedroom would have been handy, The three of them sharing a room didn’t exactly create a romantic ideal. Sherlock tried to look on the bright side - at least in front of Mark they could share the odd kiss or two, though Mycroft and his sensibilities would draw the line at anything else. He had the feeling Mark would draw that line as well...it was a hard life being surrounded by people who were such  _ prudes _ . 

Mycroft was late getting home from work on Thursday as he’d needed to make sure everything was all sorted until he returned to work on Tuesday. Sherlock dreamed of having a proper holiday away with him, where they could go somewhere where noone knew they were brothers, but shuddered when he thought of how hard it would be to arrange. If Mycroft didn’t get home until close to midnight to simply have an extra long weekend, if they tried to go away for a couple of weeks, he’d probably have to live at the office for five days straight beforehand. 

He mentioned this to Mycroft as his brother was drying off from his shower. Sherlock had already gone to bed but when Mycroft got home, he wrapped the sheet around himself and lounged on the closed toilet seat so they could talk as Mycroft attended his ablutions. 

“You exaggerate, brother dear,” Mycroft said as he rubbed at his hair with the towel. “It was only like this tonight because last week I was away from the office due to the conference and having to go to Baskerville.”

“Still, it makes it almost impossible,” Sherlock said with a pout. His snippish mood had abated somewhat but now he was content to be mopey.

His brother said nothing, but while he brushed his teeth he regarded Sherlock in the mirror. After he was done, he hung up his towel and held a hand out to the younger man. “Come, let’s go to bed.”

Sherlock took the offered hand and they went through to the bedroom, where his toga was put back onto its rightful place on the bed. They crawled under the covers and Mycroft worked an arm under Sherlock’s shoulders so he could cradle him close. “I was going to wait until everything had been confirmed without a doubt before I told you,” he said quietly, his breath tickling the detective’s curls.

Sherlock tilted his face to look at him. “Tell me what?”

“I’ve managed to arrange things so you can come to Vancouver with me when I go to the international conference there. Once it’s finished, you and I will have a further ten days in Canada to do whatever you wish.”

Sherlock twisted in his arms so he was on his stomach so he could stare at Mycroft in shock without straining his neck. “You’re serious?”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied with a smile. “You’re not the only one who dreams of going somewhere we won’t be recognised; where having the same surname it will be assumed to be that we’re married and not related; a place we can hold hands or share a kiss without causing a scandal.” He reached down and brushed an errant lock off his forehead. “I know how much you want this, brother mine, and how much you deserve it, too. You might want to start thinking about what sort of things you want to do while we’re there. I’ll do whatever you want - this is going to be all about making  _ you _ happy.”

“What would make me happy is if  _ we _ planned it together, Mycie. I’ve heard that that’s half the fun of a holiday - the dreaming and scheming beforehand. I want to do things together that we  _ both _ want to do. I won’t enjoy myself if you’re just doing things that I like.”

He nodded. “That sounds nice. I’ll start doing some research. I know it won’t be the most ideal time to go since it’ll be mid-autumn by then, but hopefully it won’t be too cold.”

“Fall.”

“Pardon?”

“They call it fall there. Mostly anyway.”

His brother rolled his eyes. “And here I thought they were part of the Commonwealth.”

“Yes, well, I guess their boisterous neighbours to the south have had a bit of an influence.”

“ _ Anyway _ ,” Mycroft continued, “Just keep the weather in mind when you come up with your ideas.”

Sherlock grinned and then leaned in for a kiss. “Thank you,” he whispered, happier than he thought he could be. 

“You’re very welcome,” Mycroft replied. “Now we should probably get some sleep since we’re leaving for Sherrinford rather early.”

“Sleep is overrated,” Sherlock stated. He climbed up so he was straddling Mycroft’s hips. “For the next four days we have to act like I  _ don’t _ enjoy having your cock up my arse, so I’d very much like to enjoy having it up there now, please.”

His brother chuckled. “Always so crass.”

“You love it.”

“God help me, but I do,” he admitted.

Sherlock drew him in for a kiss, licking across the seam of his lips until Mycroft opened and allowed his tongue inside, and started grinding his hips down onto the older man’s burgeoning erection. He had four days worth of sex to make up for, and only about four hours until dawn came.  _ Should be enough time _ , he told himself. After all, he could sleep when he was dead.

 


	33. Chapter 33

Mycroft always found the visual of his parents in a helicopter rather amusing. They seemed so out of place, their cardigans and grey hair standing out in stark contrast besides the darkly dressed security escort with their grim faces and guns. Sherlock on the other hand always seemed to blend in seamlessly. He was all sleek, hard planes, his eyes cool and calculating, emanating a sense of ruthlessness, of danger. The eldest sibling found that a little disconcerting.

It didn’t happen as often as it once did, but there were still times when Mycroft would lie awake at night, allowing his mind to wander down the path of ‘what ifs’. It terrified him how easy it would have been for Sherlock to follow the path set by Eurus, to fall into the pattern of cruelty. The older brother had watched the footage from the cameras placed on the roof of Bart’s, and his heart had broken when Sherlock had said, ‘ _ I may be on the side of the angels, but don’t think for one second that I am one of them _ ’, and then it had shattered again when he’d declared to Magnusson that he was a high functioning sociopath, just before he’d pulled the trigger. 

It was easier now to calm himself when he found his thoughts taking that direction, now that he knew firsthand how loving his brother could be; how gentle he was as he prepared Mycroft; how he would tuck Rosie in at night and press a kiss to her temple, vowing to always protect her; how he would send text messages throughout the day when he knew his lover had an extra difficult meeting, just so he had something to smile about. If he’d never discovered this side of his brother, Mycroft would have found it terrifyingly easy to believe that Sherlock would one day allow his dark side to bloom, to grow until it was all encompassing. If his brilliant mind had decided to fill the vacant position of ‘consulting criminal’, he would have been unstoppable, unlike Moriarty. And though it would have caused his heart to wither and die within him, Mycroft would have quietly prepared the cell next to Eurus in readiness for when his brother crossed the line drawn in the sand.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the feeling of eyes on him and he looked across to see Sherlock looking at him in concern. He gave him a small smile, but he could tell Sherlock knew his thoughts had taken a darker turn. Despite the common belief that they could have entire conversations without words, they weren’t quite that adept and so Sherlock didn’t understand what had caused his sudden bout of melancholy. If Mycroft had his way, his brother would be so distracted for the remainder of the day that he would forget to ask about it. Their parents were sitting next to Mycroft, (Mark was next to his brother), and a quick glance showed they were otherwise occupied as they debated what sort of bird was hovering just above the waterline. Taking the risk, he dropped the mask he held in place when they were in public and allowed the love he felt for Sherlock to show for a moment on his face. Sherlock recognised it and seemed to be placated somewhat, the smile he gave him in return being warmer than they would usually share when not alone.

Sherrinford was fast approaching as the pilot prepared to land, and so Mycroft pushed all of his sombre thoughts to the back of his mind. He wanted to make this as joyous an occasion as possible for Mummy, which considering she was visiting her daughter in a secure fortress in the middle of the ocean, would be difficult enough as it was. The last thing she needed was for her eldest to be brooding about things that had never come to pass.

After a brief check in with the Governor, they made their way down to the lower levels and headed for Eurus’ cell. She was sitting on her bed, a drawing pad and a piece of charcoal in her hands, which she lay aside as her family filed into the room. She rose, her movements as effortless as Sherlock’s, but where his brother reminded Mycroft of a cat, Eurus was definitely a viper. He felt a momentary pang of guilt for thinking such thoughts, especially considering the positive change that she had undergone over recent months, but Mycroft had always prided himself on seeing the larger picture and despite a significant improvement, nothing she did would ever negate the destruction his sister had caused. He would never, for even a second, forget that.

“Mummy, Father,” she greeted them. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Hello, sweetheart,” Mummy said, crossing to the glass and laying a hand flat against it. Eurus joined her on the other side, imitating the pose. “How have you been?”

“Well,” she replied. “I’ve been kept busy with puzzles to solve, and I’ve also been enjoying my drawing. There’s also Sherlock’s visits as well, which I always look forward too.” She turned and shared a small smile with Sherlock, and also with Mycroft. “Brothers,” she said.

“Hello, Eurus,” Sherlock said, and Mycroft inclined his head in greeting.

“Do you have it?” their sister asked.

“Of course,” Mycroft replied, pulling the small package from his inner jacket pocket.

“Can we give it to her now?” 

“Certainly.” He handed the present to Sherlock to give to their mother.

“What’s this?” Mummy asked, genuinely surprised. 

“It’s from all of us, for your birthday,” Sherlock told her. 

Mummy unwrapped the gift, gasping at the photo in the simple, silver frame. “Oh, my darlings, it’s  _ perfect _ .” It was clear she wanted to hug them, but refrained as she knew she would be unable to give her daughter one as well. Instead she wiped at her eyes which had started to moisten, and beamed at the photo.

“I have something for you as well,” Eurus said, sounding hesitant. She placed something in the hatch and Mycroft retrieved it, ostensibly to be helpful, but needing to vette the gift. He smiled as he glanced at it, and readily handed it over.

“You drew this?” Mummy exclaimed, looking at the exquisite charcoal drawing.   
“Do you like it?” she asked, shyly.

“I  _ love  _ it!” It was an intricate collage of mathematical symbols and drawings, forming an almost Escher-esque scene. The more you looked at it, the more detail your eyes captured, and the more magical it appeared.

“I have one for all of you,” she said. “I’ll give you those before you go.”

“Oh, dear, you have such a talent for this, Mummy gushed. “Please, will you show me more of your work?”

Once she had shown off her work, Eurus and Sherlock performed again for their parents, a new piece they had been working on together. Mycroft watched with something akin to bittersweetness in his heart, yet again pondering how such beauty could be produced by those who had such a tendency for darkness. Of course, he knew that everyone had some darkness, as well as light inside of them, and there was no such thing as pure goodness or pure evil, but his mind seemed to want to dwell on such philosophical musings today it seemed. He mentally shook himself, dismissing such thoughts, and concentrated on his siblings, his eyes drawn to Sherlock as he lost himself in the music. His features were peaceful and serene as he played, letting the music consume him, and Mycroft could say with certainty that he had never seen anything so mesmerising in his life.

They spoke afterwards, idle chit chat, until it was time to go. Eurus collected three more pages and put the first one into the slot. “This is for Father,” she explained.

Their father wiped away his own tear as he saw it was a portrait of he and his wife and he clutched it to his chest. “It’s beautiful, my girl, just like you.”

Eurus beamed, and then placed the remaining pieces in the hatch. “For you, brothers,” she said. She glanced to where Mummy had put an arm around Father, seeing they were preoccupied. “Since you’re half of a whole,” she said cryptically. 

Mycroft retrieved the drawings, noting they were both of a rolling, mountainous landscape. He knew there would be something more to it than met the eye, but he would leave that discovery for a later time. “Thank you, dear sister,” he told her, giving her a smile.

“I’ll see you soon,” Sherlock said. “Sorry we didn't get up top today.”

“That’s okay, there’s always next time, and I’m not going anywhere.”

They grinned at each other, and then Mycroft began corralling Sherlock and his parents towards the door. 

“Goodbye, sweetheart,” Mummy cried, blowing her youngest a kiss.

“Have a happy birthday, Mummy,” Eurus told her, and then the door was shutting.

“ETA of helicopter is ten minutes, sir,” Mark told Mycroft as he joined them in the corridor.

He nodded and they hurried upwards, the weather conditions surrounding the island so unpredictable that it was imperative they catch their ride while they could.

It was hours later, when they’d arrived at their parent’s place, and were storing their bags in the bedroom that Mycroft and Sherlock could properly examine their gifts. Sherlock took hold of one of the pieces of paper, turning it this way and that. “ _ Oh _ ,” he exclaimed as he saw it. He lay it on the bed, the landscape on its side, and took the other piece from Mycroft. Rotating it as well, he placed it so the edges connected and they stood back, looking down at the two pieces.

The landscapes disappeared, replaced instead with a portrait of both Mycroft and Sherlock. Eurus had captured their likenesses perfectly, and both men had a look of sheer love on their faces as they gazed at one another. Half of a whole. 

Mummy called for them then, and they wordlessly separated the pages, returning them to two pictures of innocent scenery. Mycroft pulled Sherlock to him and they shared a brief, but heartfelt kiss before they broke apart and left to heed the call of their mother.


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's more Rosie and Mycie for those who love his interactions with the mini menace :)

John and Rosie were driving up and arrived just before dinner. Mummy had insisted they stay for the whole weekend, not only to have an extra set of hands to help with the setting up, but because she adored John’s little girl so much. Sherlock opened the door for them and took the bag from John’s hands, setting it down at the foot of the stairs before ushering them through to the kitchen. Mummy stood up from the table and opened her arms, crying, “Look who has grown so much! Come give me a hug!”

Rosie regarded her shyly, as it had been months since she’d last seen her. Then, to Mummy’s complete surprise, the toddler turned and ran to Mycroft, burying her face in his legs. Sherlock found it adorable how when she was scared, or unsure, or just overwhelmed, Rosie would run for his brother. And then he felt his blood freeze in his veins. How the fuck were they supposed to explain that to their parents? The slightly wild look he could see in both Mycroft’s and John’s eyes confirmed all three of them were thinking the same thing.

“Rosie, come and say hello to Mrs Holmes,” John told her, trying to gloss over the situation.

“How many times have I told you to call me Mummy?” she asked, her hands on her hips. John looked bashful, but didn't reply, and Mummy stepped around the table so she could kneel down in front of where her eldest was sitting. “Rosie, dear,” she said gently, “Do you remember who I am?”

The toddler sneaked a glance at her, and then hid her face again, her arms wrapped around Mycroft’s leg like a vice. There was a muffled, “No.”

“This is Sherlock’s mummy,” John told her. “Remember I said we were coming to visit his mummy and daddy? You’ve met them before but you might not remember them.”

She turned her head and gave Mummy another look, then turned her face to peer up at Mycroft. “Mycie’s mummy, too?” she asked.

Sherlock swallowed hard, wondering how they could have been so stupid to allow themselves to have been so openly affectionate in front of the child. It had seemed harmless when she was a baby, but the older she got, the more chance there was of her giving their secret away.

“Yes, I’m Myc’s mummy, too,” their mother answered the child.

Rosie turned and glared at her. “Not Myc!” she told her in the sternest voice she could muster. “ _ Mycie _ .” She turned away from Mummy and held out her arms. “Up?”

Mycroft lifted her into his lap and settled her down comfortably. “You’re being rather rude, Rosamund,” he chided her gently. “I think you should greet Mummy properly, don’t you?”

While she considered this, Sherlock couldn’t help but feel a surge of affection for his brother. He’d come so far, from feeling totally unable to connect with  _ anyone _ , let alone a child, to having this rather special relationship with the girl Sherlock considered his niece. “ ‘lo,” Rosie muttered, then squirmed around until she could hide her face against Mycroft’s chest.

“Sorry, she’s pretty tired from the drive up,” John apologised. 

“Don’t be,” Mummy told him. “I know how little ones can get. She’ll warm up to me eventually I’m sure.” She gave the scene before her a thoughtful look. “She seems rather taken with  _ you, _ Myc.”

“Yes well, that was one of Sherlock’s plans that backfired horribly on him,” Mycroft explained. “He thought it would be funny every time I came to visit to throw the baby at me and watch me squirm, but instead we grew rather fond of each other, didn't we?” He smiled down at Rosie, who hugged him tighter.

Sherlock watched their mother closely to see if she would buy the story. It was actually close to the truth, but except for wanting to make his brother uncomfortable, he’d wanted Mycroft to bond with the child much as he had. The Holmes matriarch was a highly intelligent woman, but when it came to people, she seemed to always see the good in others. He hoped that she wouldn’t feel the need to look beneath the surface since she would be the one person who might possibly deduce the truth behind their relationship.

After a moment that seemed to last an eternity, Mummy got to her feet and squeezed Mycroft’s shoulder. “It’s good to see you interacting with her, Myc. I always knew you weren’t as much as The Iceman as you claimed.”

The rear door opened and Mark stepped into the kitchen. He’d been briefing the security team and positioning them around the property, and had obviously been down the very back of the yard where it faced the large, open field as he was holding a large bunch of wild bluebells. “These are for you,” she told Mummy, handing them over with a blush.

She smiled in delight and took them from him, giving the young man a peck on the cheek. “They’re beautiful,” she gushed, hurrying to find a vase for them. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and mouthed ‘ _ kiss arse’ _ at his friend, causing Mark to grin. The young agent had charmed the pants off both their parents, Mummy especially. Hopefully he could continue to distract her, as she seemed to have forgotten all about Rosie’s display of affection towards Mycroft as she plied Mark with homemade shortbread. Of course, he also hoped that their parents wouldn’t associate this Mark with the ‘Mark’ he’d been ‘dating’ for several months last Christmas. His parents had been devastated when he’d told them it hadn’t worked out as they had never even gotten to meet the young man in question. That was rather fortuitous now...

“I’m going to take your luggage upstairs,” Sherlock told John, excusing himself.

He went through to the front of the house, encountering his father who was sitting in an armchair reading the paper. “Everyone settling in?” he asked, looking up from the entertainment section.

“That they are. Mummy is making tea.”

“Good. This place always feels happier when you boys are here. Except of course when you two spend the entire visit bickering, but that doesn’t seem to happen as often as it once did.”

It was true. Although they still sniped at each other occasionally, the level of bickering had definitely decreased since their relationship had taken a romantic turn. “I suppose we’ve just grown up,” he offered as way of an explanation.

“I suppose even boys as smart as the both of you have to lag behind in  _ something _ ,” Father said with a smile. “Even if it is growing up.”

Choosing not to comment, Sherlock picked up the bag and jogged up the stairs, depositing it in the room that used to be his. He took a moment to just  _ think _ , to come up with reasonable explanations for anything that might be let slip during their time here. He knew Mycroft had already explained to their parents that he saw more of Sherlock now than ever before; that the events of Sherrinford had brought them closer; had lessened the animosity between them. They had seemed overjoyed with this fact and had taken it at face value so perhaps they just needed to work on that as a basis for anything that arose? He’d speak to Mycroft tonight about when they got a few moments alone, but hopefully in the meantime their secret would be kept safe.

 


	35. Chapter 35

Mycroft had finished in the shower and was brushing his teeth when there was a banging on the bathroom door. “What the hell is taking you so long?” Sherlock’s voice demanded. “Other people want to use the bathroom as well!”

He grinned to himself at the pantomime, knowing it was entirely for their parent’s benefit. He opened the door, schooling his face into an expression of mild annoyance. “There _is_ another bathroom downstairs, brother mine,” he said, fighting to keep the smirk off his face as Sherlock’s eyes widened at seeing him with only a towel wrapped around his waist.

“Yes, but that’s _downstairs_ , and seeing as I’m already upstairs, I want to brush my teeth in _this_ one.”

“Honestly, could you get any more lazy?”

“If I followed your example, without a doubt. Now hurry up.”

“No, you can just wait your turn.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort but was cut off by Mummy. “For heaven’s sake, the bathroom is big enough for the both of you so you can bloody well share,” she hissed from down the hall. “Now, be quiet or you’ll wake up Rosie.” She glared at them and then retreated back into her bedroom and shut the door, but not before they heard Father grumbling   _‘I spoke too soon_.’

As soon as she was gone, Sherlock pushed his way into the bathroom and shut the door, and then he was crowding Mycroft up against the basin, his lips attaching themselves to his neck. The older man chuckled quietly. “You’re a terror, brother mine.”

The detective shrugged and sucked on the soft skin above his collarbone. “I _needed_ to get you alone, even if it was only for a few minutes.”

“And what was so urgent?” he asked.

Sherlock smirked. “This.” He dropped to his knees onto the bathmat, pulling the towel open as he went. The expression on his face as he watched Mycroft’s cock begin to grow before his eyes was one of reverence, and the diplomat couldn’t help but be amazed once more at how wonderful it felt to be the object of his brother’s affections. It felt even more wonderful as warm lips wrapped around the head of his cock and began to suckle on the tip, and he stifled a moan.

Knowing they had limited time, Sherlock didn’t waste any with teasing or drawing things out, and was soon taking Mycroft as deep as he could. He employed every trick he knew, used every ounce of knowledge about what made his brother’s knees weak, and less than a minute later Mycroft was pulsing over his tongue. He licked him clean, and looked up, his eyes dark in the bright light of the bathroom, and then shoved his pyjama bottoms down with one hand to free his own erection. He began fisting himself furiously, his eyes locked with Mycroft’s the entire time, and then his breath caught and his body shuddered and he was coming himself.

Mycroft helped Sherlock to his feet and while he washed his hands, the older man grabbed a flannel and cleaned up the mess on the tiles that hadn’t managed to be caught by those lovely violinist fingers. Once he was done, he rinsed his mouth as it still had traces of toothpaste and then he pulled Sherlock in for a gentle kiss. “Thank you, love,” he murmured.

“Oh, it was my pleasure,” Sherlock whispered back.

Leaving him to brush his own teeth, Mycroft retreated to the bedroom to find Mark positioning the blowup mattress on the floor. “Hey,” the young agent greeted him. “Sorry, it doesn’t leave much room for maneuvering,” he said, waving at the floor.

“Nothing we haven’t coped with before.”

“I’ve just checked on the shift change,” Mark said. “The lads are all ready for tonight.”

“Excellent. I just hope the neighbours don’t get too nosy and wonder about the random men about the place and call the police.”

“If they do, then it’ll be a wake up call that our security teams can’t do their jobs.”

“True.” Mycroft blushed a little, lamenting the fact that his brain took so long to come back online after an orgasm.

Sherlock appeared behind him and squeezed into the room, and shut the door. He surveyed the room and it was clear he was debating with himself. “Hmmm.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know if it would be best for you to sleep on the righthand side of the bed so there’s two of us between you and the door, or on the left, so I’m between you and the window.” Mycroft watched as Sherlock worked it through in his head, going over all the possible outcomes, and waited patiently, happy to do whatever his brother decided. In the end, Sherlock climbed up onto the bed and settled himself down closest to the window, and so Mycroft took his usual position on the left. He waited for Mark to get as comfortable as possible (which wasn’t very) on the blowup mattress and then he turned off the lamp.

“Goodnight, boys,” Mark said quietly.

“I can guarantee it won’t be a good one,” Sherlock replied, echoing Mycroft’s thoughts. “I’ve slept on that mattress before.”

“It doesn’t seem too bad.”

“Yet,” the detective said ominously.

“Erm...what should I expect?”

“Sherlock, don’t torture him,” Mycroft chided.

“Why? Because the mattress will do that soon enough?”

“Oh, God,” Mark muttered.

“If it gets too bad, I can set you up on the pullout sofa downstairs,” Mycroft offered.

“Thanks, but that defeats the purpose of me being here as security.”

“I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

“I’d rather be uncomfortable than you getting hurt, or worse.”

Sherlock rolled over and snaked an arm around his waist. “Mark’s right, Mycie.”

“I know, but still…”

“I’ll be fine, sir,” Mark assured him.

“Very well. But please remember, I’m not ‘sir’ here.”

“Ah, yes. Sorry...Mycroft.”

“That’s alright. Goodnight, Mark.”

~~~~~~~

He wasn’t sure what time it was when he was woken by a squeaking noise. Mycroft rolled over and tried to concentrate on figuring out what the noise was. There was a quiet curse, and then more squeaking and he realised it was Mark on the mattress. “Let me guess,” he said softly. “The middle of the mattress is touching the floor, and all the air is being forced to the ends?”

Mark groaned. “Yes - I resemble a horseshoe at the moment.” There was more shuffling and then a resigned sigh. “I think I’d be better off on the floor.”

Mycroft heard Mark roll off the campsite torture device and start to shove it under the bed to make room on the floor. He made a decision and shuffled over on the bed. “Don’t be ridiculous. There’s more than enough room up here for three of us.”

There was a pause. “I don’t want to intrude on your space,” Mark said. “I know you and Sherlock get little enough time together here as it is.”

“While that’s very kind of you, I can’t allow you to sleep on the floor, Mark.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. And look, I’ve already warmed up a space for you.”

The agent chuckled and then Mycroft felt the bed dip as he climbed onto it. “That’s very kind of you on this warm, summer night.”

“Yes, well, you can’t have everything,” he replied airily.

Finally roused by the talk, Sherlock lifted his head from the pillow and peered at them in the darkness. He didn't seem at all surprised to see there were now three bears in the bed. “Claimed another victim I see,” he muttered, then his head thumped back down onto the pillow and he started snoring softly.

The two men laughed together, and then Mycroft heard Mark sigh in contentment. “This is much better. Thank you.”

“No point being here as security if you’re crippled,” he said. “I hope you get some sleep now.”

“I’m sure I will. Goodnight, Mycroft.”

“Goodnight, Mark.” He turned onto his side, and spooned up close behind Sherlock, giving the young agent as much room as he could. It wasn’t long before there was even breathing coming from behind to indicate Mark was also asleep. Pressing his face against the back of Sherlock’s pyjama clad back, Mycroft allowed himself to relax so sleep could claim him as well.

 


	36. Chapter 36

Summer was coming to an end and the nights and early mornings were getting cooler, so Sherlock was nice and cosy with Mycroft pressed close against him when he woke. He wondered why his brother hadn’t migrated to the very edge of the bed as he usually did, but then he seemed to recall that Mark had joined them sometime during the night. He’d been surprised that their friend had lasted more than an hour on that accursed mattress, but he knew that if either of the brothers had suggested from the beginning he share the bed, Mark would have declined. He was very respectful of giving them time together, even if it was chaperoned by way of him sharing a room.

The door creaked open and Sherlock heard the sound of small feet on the floorboards. He lifted his head and saw a tiny face peeking at him from the foot of the bed. “Morning, my little genius,” he murmured. “You’re up early.”

Rosie grinned at him, and climbed up onto the bed. She scrambled up over Sherlock’s legs and when she got to the top, she flopped over his side and neatly inserted herself between Mycroft and Sherlock. There was a quiet _oof_ and he deduced her elbow had collided with some part of Mycroft’s anatomy. “Rosamund,” the older man whined. “What are you doing?”

Sherlock turned around so he could see what was going on and grinned as he saw that the child was snuggled up against Mycroft’s chest. Her thumb was in her mouth and she seemed quite content to go back to sleep. Deciding that a few more winks wouldn’t do him any harm either, Sherlock allowed himself to doze off again.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when he was woken by a delicate cough from the foot of the bed. He woke to find John looking at them in amusement. “Well, that looks cozy,” the doctor said wryly.

“Mmmm,” he agreed sleepily.

“I’m surprised the bed hasn’t collapsed from having so many people in it.”

“Sherlock and Mark are both waifs,” Mycroft said, his eyes still closed and his arms cradling Rosie to him. “And this one weighs less than a feather. There’s no danger of the bed collapsing, unless of course I’ve put on more weight than I thought I had.”

“You’ve not put on _any_ weight,” Sherlock told him.

“Any reason why there’s so many people in the bed?” John asked.

“Mark was sleeping on the air mattress,” the detective said by way of explanation.

“Ah, gotcha,” John said, wincing in sympathy. He’d suffered through it once before and hadn’t been able to walk without his hip twinging for a week.

“Are you people always this chatty in the morning?” Mark moaned from his side of the bed.

“Only when it will annoy you,” Sherlock told him.

One of Mark’s hands appeared over Mycroft’s shoulder and his middle finger was extended especially for Sherlock.

Rosie began to rouse from her nap and she blinked a few times, then looked over to see John. “Daddy!” she cried.

“Good morning, Rosie,” John said. “I wondered where you had gone when I woke up to find you missing.”

“Mycie snugs,” she told him seriously.

The blonde couldn’t keep the smile off his face. “Yes, I suppose Mycie snugs are very important.”

She nodded, then climbed onto her knees. She took Mycroft’s cheeks between her tiny hands and gave him a sloppy kiss on the end of his long nose, and then she clambered down the bed and held her arms out to her father. “Beckfass?” she asked.

“ _Breakfast_ ,” he corrected her as he picked her up. “But yes, we’ll go and get some breakfast.”

“Bye bye,” she said, waving at the men on the bed.

“Bye bye,” Sherlock replied. “We’ll be down shortly.”

The door closed behind them, and Sherlock rolled back over, pressing his back up against his brother’s chest. He could feel his cock begin to harden and press against him and wished he could take advantage of the morning occurrence, but knew it was unlikely. Mycroft slung his arm over the younger man’s hip, and they remained there for a short while.

There was a loud sigh from the other side of the bed and then Mark sat up. “I suppose I can’t really put off getting up any longer. The team will be changing shifts soon and I really should debrief them.”

“Mmmm, I suppose we should venture downstairs as well,” Mycroft agreed. “Mummy will be squawking at us soon to start getting the place organised for tomorrow.” He disentangled himself from Sherlock and got out of bed, but the lanky detective decided to stay there for a few more minutes. He stretched out, enjoying the space as both men moved about the room, getting ready for the day. “Did you sleep better afterwards?” he heard Mycroft ask.

“Yes, I did,” Mark replied. “I can’t thank you enough. I really hope I wasn’t any bother.”

“Not at all. You’re welcome to share again tonight.”

“I really don’t want to intrude,” he protested. “I’m sure I can rig something up.”

“Don't be silly,” the diplomat said. “You need to be comfortable, and neither of us mind - do we, Sherlock?”

He snorted. “Of course not. It's not like this is the first time you've fallen asleep with both of us. The first time _together_ perhaps, but last night was just your lucky night, I suppose.”

“Don't flatter yourself, Sher,” the agent retorted.

“Pfft, if you weren't as straight as a post, you'd have been drooling all night.”

“Then I guess it was _your_ lucky night, otherwise I'd have made the pillow soggy.”

“I guess it's your loss then.”

“Perhaps we could save the argument of whether or not Mark would find you irresistible if he were gay for another time?” Mycroft said pointedly to his brother.

“It’s not exactly up for debate,” Sherlock declared, his eyes twinkling with mirth.

Mark sighed and turned a forlorn look at the older sibling. “Has he _always_ been this cocky?”

“Do you even have to ask? One doesn’t develop that level of arrogance overnight.”

“I refuse to listen to this slander!” Sherlock cried, pulling the blanket over his head. He felt the bottom of the blanket lift up and hands he recognised as Mycroft’s grasped his ankles. A moment later he was yelping as he was tugged from the bed and colliding with the floor. “What was that for?”

“Because I refuse to be the only one forced to fold serviettes, brother mine. It’s time to face the day.”

“Urgh, _fine_ , but _I_ refuse to polish the silverware - I’m not a servant.”

“I believe, Sherlock, that in Mummy’s eyes, you most certainly are, and as it is her birthday celebration, you will do what you are told to do.”

He scowled at his brother, wanting to protest but also knowing that if he upset Mummy, he would upset _Mycroft_ , and his brother was not at all opposed to withholding sexual favours. That was not something he was willing to risk. He plastered a pout onto his face before rising from the bed and starting to strip off his pyjamas.

“Jesus Christ, Sher!” Mark exclaimed, turning around to get an eye full of naked detective.“That is _not_ something I needed to see.”

“I thought we established you had no interest in this,” he replied, gesturing to his torso.

“I don’t, which is exactly _why_ I didn’t need to see it!”

“Pfft, you are being childish and immature. There is nothing wrong with the human form.” He sniffed in disdain.

Mycroft picked up a dressing gown and draped it over his shoulders. “Well I for one would prefer you not go flaunting what you have to others, Sherlock.”

“Why? There’s nothing wrong with my body!”

“You know that I know that, but I would rather it stay for my eyes only. How would you feel if I pranced around naked in front of other people?”

“Oh,” he said, a surge of jealousy roiling in his stomach just at the thought of it. “I suppose that’s fair enough.”

Mark rolled his eyes. “For someone so smart, Sher, you can be a real dumb arse.”

Mycroft smiled and kissed him on the cheek. “Yes he can, but I still love him.”

Sherlock smiled shyly back at him, and then hurried to pick up the clothes he’d laid out for the day. “I’ll just pop to the bathroom to get dressed.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Mycroft asked.

He paused at the door, thinking, and then it hit him. He stepped back across to his brother, lay a kiss on his cheek and whispered, “I love you, too.”

Mycroft smiled at him, briefly cupping his cheek. “Thank you. Now off with you - Mummy’s silverware awaits!”

 

 


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's double treat Sunday! Whoop whoop!

By nightfall, Mycroft was exhausted. He accepted the glass of scotch that Father handed him, and then sank down onto the couch, fighting the urge to sleep right there and then. Sherlock was slumped down next to him, and John had taken one of the armchairs. Even Mark, who had avoided a lot of the tasks simply because he’d needed to keep his focus on their surroundings, looked tired just from observing. He was by the window, surveying the front yard but he was leaning up against the wall instead of standing. 

“Look on the bright side, boys,” Father told them as he handed John a glass as well and then took his own seat. “She won’t be turning 70 again.”

Sherlock’s head fell back to loll against the back of the couch. “I just don’t understand why she couldn’t have gotten people in to do this,” he complained. “There are whole businesses set up around this lark, who are more than happy to take your money in exchange for setting up marquees and hanging streamers.” He glanced across at his brother and grinned. “And don’t forget folding the serviettes.”

Mycroft held up one of his hands and looked at it mournfully. “I’m almost certain I am permanently crippled.”

“Well, there goes your love life,” Father quipped.

Sherlock had taken a swallow of his scotch and suddenly spat it everywhere at Father’s words. Mycroft saw Mark snigger, and John quickly took a swallow of his own drink so as not to give anything away. He plucked several tissues from the box on the coffee table and handed them to his brother to mop up the mess. “Father, I do  _ not _ need the visual of Mycroft wanking,” Sherlock said with a scowl, sounding exactly like a disgusted younger brother. 

“Oh, don’t be such a prude,” their sire told him. “It’s a completely natural thing to do. I’m sure you’ve been kept company by your own hands on a few lonely nights.”

“ _ Father _ !” Sherlock exclaimed.

Mummy chose that moment to enter the room, carrying a freshly bathed toddler. “What on earth is going on in here?”

“I’m mortifying Sherlock, apparently,” Father explained with a grin.

She shook her head at their antics. “You’re a menace, dear. Now speaking of menaces, who would like this one while I start on dinner?” She smiled at Rosie who was playing with her brooch.

The child pointed across at the couch. “Mycie,” she announced, making the decision for the adults.

Although she’d seen several times today how attached John’s daughter was to her eldest, Mummy still seemed confused as to how it had happened. Mycroft himself was still confused about that, but had long stopped questioning it. He’d humoured Rosie at the start because he knew it made Sherlock happy, but he’d quickly grown attached to the little girl and now enjoyed her attentions. As Sherlock said, they’d never be able to have children of their own (not that that was something either of them particularly wanted), but they’d be able to play the role of doting uncles to the child who was practically their niece.

Mycroft held his arms out and Mummy deposited Rosie in them. The toddler immediately started fiddling with his sleeve garters, something she had always been fascinated with, and she could spend ages sitting in his lap, a very serious expression on her face, as she pulled material to either side. 

“If she’s annoying you, just let me know,” John told him. “You’re not her personal playground.”

He shook his head and smiled at the child. “It’s fine. I truly don’t mind.” 

Mummy looked over at her husband. “I’ll need a hand with dinner, dear,” she told him.

He sighed and drained the last of his scotch, not daring to argue with his wife, especially on her birthday weekend, then stood and followed her to the kitchen.

“That was interesting,” John said with a smirk once the older couple had gone.

“Shut up,” Sherlock said, looking chagrined.

Mark bellowed out a laugh, and left his place at the window to take the empty archair. “Your face was priceless, Sher.”

“Perhaps it was a little too close for comfort,” Mycroft mentioned.

“Oh, I think he did a good job of acting like a horrified younger brother,” Mark disagreed. “Of course, we all know the truth. Since Sherlock folded as many serviettes as you, Mycroft, your love life probably  _ has _ suffered a blow.”

Mycroft shot the young agent a derisive look, while John laughed. Sherlock blushed, but muttered, “I have other options besides my  _ hands _ .”

“On that note, perhaps we should change the subject,” Mycroft said, looking pointedly at Rosie, who appeared distracted by his garters, but there was no guarantee she wouldn’t parrot their conversation back to his parents at some stage.

This seemed to sober the doctor and the agent, but Sherlock just gave him a scorching look that promised as soon as they got an opportunity, he would be demonstrating just  _ what _ he could use, other than his hands.

Mycroft couldn’t wait.

~~~~~~~

The opportunity came sooner than he expected. He’d excused himself early for the night, wanting to have a shower before bed, and was washing his hair when he heard the door creak open. Knowing he’d locked it, there was only one possibility - Sherlock had picked the lock. He was grinning as the shower curtain was pulled back, revealing his naked brother.

‘We don’t have long,” Sherlock whispered, his hands running across Mycroft’s soapy chest. “I’ve already lubed myself up.” He looked at him from beneath thick lashes. “Will you fuck me?”

Swallowing down a moan, Mycroft pulled Sherlock into the cubicle so he could kiss him thoroughly, and then spun him around so he could brace his hands against the tiles. “How could I possibly decline such an offer?” he growled into his brother’s ear, holding his cock and sliding it over his crack until he felt the head tug against his slick hole.

“I’d hate to think that your love life was suffering,” Sherlock said, pushing his arse back, begging to be breached.

“You  _ are _ my love life,” Mycroft replied, mouthing at his neck as he slowly pushed his way inside.

They both let out small gasps as pleasure rolled through them as he bottomed out, and Mycroft wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s waist, his hand unerringly seeking out the younger man’s hard length. He wrapped his fingers around it and gave it a few strokes, precome dripping from the tip, only to be washed away by the shower spray. He rocked his hips again, pushing in at a certain angle. Sherlock had never found prostate stimulation as mind blowing as Mycroft did, although he did say that the pressure against the gland felt good - it just didn’t tip him over the edge. Without making a big deal of it, Mycroft would try and hit that spot when he could, just in case a different angle, or a different pressure would make the difference. If it didn't, then there was no harm done, and at least it felt good for the younger man.

Sherlock started squeezing the muscles of his passage together, clenching down on Mycroft’s cock, making his knees start to tremble. It was a trick he pulled out when they were short of time - like tonight - as he knew it tipped Mycroft over the edge almost immediately. It only took two more thrusts and then Mycroft was clutching him around the waist, fighting to keep standing as his body was rocked with pleasure. His breathing was ragged and the hand that was wrapped around Sherlock’s cock had ceased it’s ministrations. The younger man pushed it out of the way and took himself in hand, flying over his shaft until his body grew tense, and then he was coming. Mycroft was only just softening and was still inside him, but the contractions of Sherlock’s muscles around his length had him suddenly crying out, pulling a second orgasm from him. 

His legs gave up their valiant efforts and he was slipping to the ground, unable to stand a second longer. Sherlock turned around, the small space suddenly becoming hard to maneuver in, and he grinned down at him. “That’s what I like to see,” he said softly.

“What would that be?” Mycroft asked, closing his eyes against the spray.

“You - the British Government, suave and sophisticated gentleman, looking absolutely shagged to death.”

Mycroft couldn’t help but giggle and he pulled his knees up to his chest and allowed his face to rest upon them. “You  _ will _ be the death of me.”

“At least you’ll die doing what you love.”

“I have no doubt.”

He felt Sherlock rest a hand on his cheek and then the shower curtain was being opened and his brother disappeared from the cubicle. “You might want to hurry,” Sherlock said quietly as he dried himself off. “The others will be heading to bed soon.”

“Urgh, I suppose you’re right,” he said. dragging himself to his feet and reaching for the flannel.

“I’ll be in the room.”

“I’ll see you soon. Oh, and Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you for taking care of my love life.”

He could hear the pleased smirk in his brother’s voice as he replied, “Anytime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet again, this chapter was written well before my sleeve garter fetish was broken down and analysed on FB lol
> 
> Speaking of FB, remember that if you'd like an invite to the Mylock group (it's set to secret so nosy friends won't see) drop me a line at scarletmanuka1@gmail.com and I'll send you an email invite :) You'll not only learn more than you ever thought you'd want to know about sleeve garters, but we share pictures, story promtps, discuss other ships we like, and just generally have a blast.


	38. Chapter 38

Sherlock hadn’t had a cigarette in months (he and Mycroft had quit together) and this was the first time he was aching for one. Mummy had been almost unbearable all morning, ordering them about like a demurely dressed dictator, and no one dared utter a protest. He had managed to sneak away for a few minutes of blissful peace and quiet, hiding in his old smoking spot behind the shed, and he found his hands patting his pockets, looking for a cigarette in an almost Pavlovian manner. He sighed when he came up empty, and leaned his head back, just enjoying the sun on his face.

“Sneaking off to avoid mummy isn’t very becoming, brother mine,” Mycroft’s voice came from beside him.

He grinned. “I can live with that. Pray tell, what are  _ you _ doing in this corner of the yard?”

“Oh, just checking to make sure it’s nice and tidy for when the guest arrive…”

They chuckled together, and Mycroft leaned back against the shed next to him, allowing their legs to press together and their fingers to tangle. 

“I’d kill for a smoke,” Sherlock muttered.

“As would I, but we’re doing so well, brother mine. Let’s not ruin it now.”

“I guess you’re right.” They were quiet for a few minutes, just taking solace in the quiet and each other’s presence, then Sherlock groaned and pushed away from the wall. “I suppose our respite is at an end. If we stay here much longer, Mummy is bound to find us.”

“Yes, that wouldn’t bode well for either of us.” Mycroft peered around the corner of the shed. “I suppose the guests will be arriving shortly.”

The younger man grinned at the look of utter distaste on his brother’s face. “Yes, yes they will. It’s going to be intolerable but needs must I suppose.”

They sauntered back over to the area of the yard that had been transformed into an outdoor entertaining area. There were three, open sided marquees standing side by side, with long, cloth covered tables underneath. Streamers and lanterns had been hung from the roof, and John had set up a sound system in the corner. Mummy was just coming out the backdoor, carrying a large platter. “There you boys are! The caterer has just delivered the nibbles - be a pair of loves and help me bring it all out, would you.”

They had just brought out the first platters when the first guests arrived and Mummy ran off to greet them, leaving her sons to finish. It took them several trips to bring out the frankly ridiculous amount of finger food Mummy had ordered, and once they were done, Sherlock flopped down in one of the chairs just as Mark returned to the backyard. He took a seat next to the brothers and snuck a spinach and ricotta puff. “Everything’s set,” he told Mycroft, wiping flakes of pastry off his shirt. “No one should even notice our men about the place, and they have all areas covered.”

“Thank you, Mark,” Mycroft said, genuine appreciation in his voice. “The last thing I want is to have Mummy’s day ruined by frightened and gossiping guests. Well, maybe the  _ second _ last thing - Elliott turning up here would be a disaster.”

“There’s been absolutely no hint of him, but if he does, I’m confident our men can take him down before we’re even aware he’s here.”

People were now streaming into the garden and Sherlock groaned as he caught sight of a familiar face. “It’s one of those numpties from the charity ball we were forced to attend at Lady Jasmine’s.”

Mycroft glanced over and his eyes narrowed. “It’s Matthew Crompton-Browne,” he identified the young man, his mouth turning down into a frown. “He was the one who took a...  _ liking _ to you.”

Mark grinned. “Things are always so entertaining when one of you gets a case of jealousy.”

“I am  _ not _ jealous,” Mycroft asserted. 

“Are you sure?” their friend asked, his grin getting even wider. “You’re face is so pinched it looks like you’ve been sucking on a lemon.”

Sherlock smirked, and waited for the older man’s response. “I am merely remembering how his fawning caused my brother some distress. If he gives me sufficient cause today, I may be forced to have words with him.”

“I have a feeling it takes an awful lot more than a simple fawning to distress Sher.”

“Yes, well, he can have a delicate constitution during large gatherings so one must take extra precautions.”

“You’re so full of hot air it isn’t funny, Mycroft.”

“He does seem in danger of floating into the stratosphere,” Sherlock agreed.

“And ‘having words’ might give the game away somewhat. Best say nothing to be on the safe side.”

Mycroft glared at both of them, and then turned his glare onto the young hyphenated nincompoop heading their way. Matthew blanched a little but then straightened his back and continued walking over. “Sherlock,” he greeted the detective warmly. “I was hoping I’d see you here.” His face crinkled as he smiled, his beakish nose elongating. 

“Considering it’s Mummy’s birthday, there was little chance of me getting out of it.”

“Yes, well, it’s fortunate for me anyway.” He turned to Mycroft and gave a small smile, and Sherlock felt a small amount of respect for the man - not many could face that thunderous expression and still smile. “It’s good to see you again too - Mike, isn’t it?”

“Mycroft,” the older man grated out.

“Ah, apologies.” He turned to Mark and held out a hand. “I’m Matthew, it’s lovely to meet you. Are you a cousin? Or some other relative?” He was obviously fishing for hint of a romantic connection. 

“Mark,” the agent introduced himself. “I’m a  _ good _ friend of Sherlock and Mycroft’s.” He emphasised the word ‘good’ so it was impossible to tell what the connotations were, leaving the young socialite at a loss.

“Well, it’s a lovely day for the event,” he said, making a gallant attempt at continuing the small talk, but directing the words solely at Sherlock.

“Yes, we were very fortunate there was no rain forecast,” Mycroft replied instead, his tone clearly indicating that the man was not welcome.

Mark gave him a reproachful look, a subtle warning he was acting out of character. Sherlock was surprised to see his brother make an effort to school his expression into something more pleasant. “So, Matthew, tell me what you so for a living,” Mark asked by way of distraction.

Sherlock sat there, bored to tears by the droning on of the man, hoping he’d miraculously go away, but it appeared he was settling in for an extended visit. He heard a squeal, and looked over to see Rosie blowing bubbles and then chasing after them. She was heading in their direction and when she passed close by, he reached out and snatched her up into his arms, causing her to squeal again. He tickled her belly and she giggled and tried to tickle him back, but had little luck. She gasped for breath and reached out for Mycroft, who took pity on her and rescued her from the Tickle Monster. She sat down on his lap and poked her tongue out at Sherlock, who returned the gesture. 

Matthew was staring at them in confusion, not recognising the child. “Hello,” he said to her politely.

Rosie looked at him, and then overcome with shyness, she buried her face in Mycroft’s chest. “She’s not very good with strangers,” Sherlock told him.

“Who does she belong to?” he asked. “I didn't think there were any small children in your family.”

“She’s the daughter of my flatmate, John.”

“Ah, I see. So, your flatmate, he’s the one you solve cases with? Your blogger?”

“Yes, that’s the one.”

Matthew continued to ask questions, and under Mark’s stern watch, Sherlock answered them with only a hint of snarkiness. The young socialite moved his chair closer, nodding, fascinated, and Sherlock found his defences failing a little at the interest. He rather enjoyed talking about his work and with such a willing participant, it was easy to get caught up in it. He was mid-way through explaining how he caught the Subway Strangler because of the hair gel he used, when Matthew got brave. He slapped Sherlock on the knee, exclaiming about how clever he was, and allowed it to linger before removing it. The longer the conversation went on, the more tactile the man got, and when Mycroft went to protest, Sherlock caught the shake of Mark’s head, advising he needed to be careful. Thinking it best to remove himself from the situation before he was helping his brother hide a body, he made an excuse to leave, citing the need to help Mummy.

“Oh,” Matthew said, disappointment evident in his voice. “Well, I really enjoyed chatting to you.” He took a deep breath, and then blurted out, “Maybe we could do it again sometime? Perhaps over coffee? Or a drink?”

Mycroft had to force himself to keep his mouth shut, and Sherlock fought to find a way to decline the offer without causing an upset and ruining Mummy’s party. Before he could speak, Rosie did. She was scowling at the man, and she climbed over into Sherlock’s lap. “No,” she told him.

“No?” Matthew asked, unsure what the toddler was meaning, or even if she was talking to him.

The next words out of her mouth caused the Holmes brothers’ hearts to stop. “Sher Sher loves Mycie,” she declared.

 

 


	39. Chapter 39

Mycroft couldn’t breathe. He stared at Rosie, who was looking at Matthew with an expression of smug satisfaction for setting him straight, ignoring the part of his brain that was screaming at him to lure the socialite away and silence him forever. He sensed that Sherlock was sitting, just as stunned beside him, but his brain just wasn’t working. The silence would soon stretch out to such awkward proportions that it would be a confession of guilt in itself, so he needed to say something, anything, to explain the toddler’s statement. But what?

Suddenly, Mark burst out laughing, pounding on his knee as he doubled over. “Oh, that’s  _ precious _ ,” he declared, causing three heads to swivel in his direction (Rosie was now poking her tongue out at Matthew). Wiping tears away from his cheeks, Mark got his laughter under control and demonstrated that for the sheer amount of genius in the group,  _ he _ was the quick one. “Sorry, Matthew, you weren’t here earlier when we were explaining the different types of love to Rosie. We explained that Sherlock’s Mummy loved his Daddy but she also loved her sons, and they loved each other, and that John had loved her mummy, and so on. I guess she’s still too little to understand.”

The lightbulb finally illuminated for the Holmes brothers, and Mycroft laughed weakly. “I’m sure she’ll understand when she’s older,” he added.

Sherlock plastered a look of horror on his face. “Hopefully it won’t be too long - just the thought of  _ you _ in a sexually compromising position makes me want to vomit, brother. To be associated with that, in any manner is so horrid to contemplate that I would rather open a vein.”

“I could say the same for you,  _ brother dear _ ,” Mycroft added, wrapping himself up in the persona of ‘superior older brother’. “I’ve yet to eat anything, but the tea I had earlier would be most unpleasant upon regurgitation.”

“I find it hard to fathom that you haven’t eaten yet as your backside is the size of a house. Mummy was even so kind as to place the platters outside so you didn't have to attempt to heft your bulk through the doorway before you devoured everything in sight.”

“Perhaps  _ you _ should eat something, Sherlock, since you become waspish and uncouth when your sugar levels drop.”

“Considering I  _ have _ eaten, you seem to be mistaking my normal manner for the symptoms of hypoglycemia.”

“Pardon me, I try to forget how combative and argumentative you can be on any given day.”

“And this is why I scoff when you declare yourself to be the ‘smart one’. Shoving your mouth with cake appears to have dulled your wits as much as it had expanded your waistline.”

“And for some reason, their mother believes they love each other,” Mark interjected, shrugging at Matthew. “However, getting back to your proposition, I’m afraid Sher is going to have to decline.” He reached out and took the detective’s hand in his. “What we have may be casual, but we  _ are _ exclusive.”

Matthews eyes widened and he blushed. “Oh, pardon me, I didn’t realise.”

“That’s more than alright. We don’t really go around announcing it to everyone.It was lovely chatting with you, Matthew.” Mark’s tone was pleasant but it was a clear dismissal.

“Likewise. Um, well, I hope you all enjoy your afternoon.” With one final, wistful look at Sherlock, he scurried off into the crowd.

Mark let go of Sherlock’s hand and the three shared a sigh of relief. Glancing down at Rosie, who was examining a ladybug that had crawled up Sherlock’s trouser leg, he muttered, “That was close. Thank you, Mark, for keeping a level head.”

Sherlock’s eyes had gone wide and wild, and Mycroft could see how fast his heart was beating from the fluttering of his pulse in his throat. His gaze also flickered to the child in his lap. “I think we’re going to have to be very careful when we’re at Baker Street now,” he said slowly.

Mycroft couldn’t deny that logic, but it made him sad nonetheless. His brother’s flat had been one of their refuges; one of only a handful of spaces in which they didn't have to hide; a safe place they could express their love for each other. Just the thought of losing that made his heart ache, even if it was the most prudent course of action. 

“I’m sorry though for what I’m sure I‘ve created,” Mark told them both, his eyes finding Matthew across the yard, already chatting with a group of people. “I’m sure the rumour mill will be abuzz with gossip of Sherlock’s love interest.”

“I don’t care what they think,” Sherlock declared.

“Yes, but won’t it get back to your parents?” 

“Undoubtedly,” Mycroft answered. “But unlike everyone else here, they know that you are here in your role as our protector. They will most likely arrive at the conclusion that it was an explanation as to your presence here, and won’t take it seriously.”

“That’s lucky then. I was worried I’d upset your mum.”

“As happy as Mummy would be to learn that either of us was in a relationship, she will understand the need of such a ruse.”

“Except for if she learned who we actually  _ are _ in a relationship with,” Sherlock added. “Or if she pieces together that Mark is the same Mark I was apparently dating last Christmas when I let it slip I was seeing someone.”

“Well that goes without saying,” Mycroft said dryly.

Mark looked thoughtful. “Do you think she would though? Mind, I mean, if she learned the truth. She seems to be rather open minded.”

Fighting the urge to gape at Mark, Mycroft just shook his head. “Yes, she is open minded, and she has always accepted our sexual orientations without upset, but I fear this taboo runs too deep for her to overcome.”

Their young friend looked sad. “That’s a pity. I don’t understand how anyone could see this -” He waved at the two of them so Rosie wouldn’t overhear what he meant, “-and not see just how  _ right _ it is. I’ve never seen two people so perfect for each other before.”

He smiled his thanks, also wary of how much to say within hearing distance of the toddler. He saw a flash of regret pass over Sherlock’s face and he knew his brother was allowing himself to dream of a time when they  _ could _ declare their love to the world. How marvellous would it be to be able to announce who your partner was, wear a symbol of their love openly, to be seen sharing an affectionate touch in public? He mentally shook himself, dragging his thoughts from such directions. It was never going to happen, and they had to just accept that. They were lucky enough that the handful of people who had discovered their secret had (on the whole) been so accepting of it. There was no point working themselves up with hopes and dreams that would never eventuate. It was a sheer impossibility, and the quicker they accepted that fact, the sooner they could move on and enjoy what they  _ did _ have.

Under the cover of the tablecloth, he allowed his hand to drop down and squeeze Sherlock’s thigh, a small gesture of support. His brother gave him a small smile, and then turned his attention to the toddler in his lap. “Are you hungry, my little genius?” he asked her.

Without looking up from her fascinated examination of the ladybug (it was now crawling over her hand), she shook her head. “Bug,” she announced.

“Looks like you’ve been a bad influence on her, brother mine,” Mycroft said with a laugh. “She’s discounting the basic needs of her body until she’s finished with her work.”

Sherlock grinned proudly. “That’s my girl.”

“Just don’t let John know - he’ll kill you if he finds out she’s not eating.”

“There’s plenty of food around for when she does get hungry, Mycie. I’m sure by the end of the day, she’ll have eaten more than what’s good for her.”

“So John won’t be happy either way,” Mark quipped.

“He rarely is,” Sherlock agreed.

Mycroft grabbed a small plate and started placing a few items of food on it that he thought Rosie might enjoy. He preferred that she have something at hand she could nibble on once her attention with the ladybug waned. He’d just decided that the excitement for the day was over, and he’d enjoy a relaxing afternoon with his brother and good friend, when there was a commotion from inside the kitchen. Mark was immediately on alert, jumping up to stand in front of the brothers, just as the back door swung open, slamming against the outside of the house. 

“Is it Elliot?” Mycroft asked, unable to see from behind the agent.

“Worse,” Sherlock told him, dread on his face. “It’s Great Auntie Myrtice.”

 


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With the witch, Myrtice back, just a heads up that there will be some homophobic language used.

Mark relaxed as Sherlock identified the ‘threat’ as being a family member, and sat back down, allowing Mycroft to see just what was going on. Myrtice, stout and squat was standing in the doorway, glaring at the party goers, while Father stood behind her, trying to convince her to leave without causing a scene. She ignored him, and when her eyes found Mummy in the crowd, she stalked towards her.

“Oh, no she doesn’t,” Mycroft growled, refusing to have his mother’s birthday ruined by that witch. “Come on, Sherlock, we need to run interference.” He was up and out of his seat in a blink of an eye, hurrying to intercept his great aunt. He saw the exact moment Mummy looked up and saw her husband’s auntie coming for her, and her face paled. Before she got within ten feet of her, the Holmes brothers stepped in front of her, blocking her way.

“Hello, auntie,” Mycroft greeted her. “I must say, I’m surprised to see you here today.”

Her eyes narrowed at him. “It’s a family gathering and I’m _family_ ,” she snapped.

“Yes, but Father made it perfectly clear last year that you were no longer welcome here. This event is invitation only and I believe you were never sent one.I think it would be best if you left immediately.”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do, you arrogant little upstart!” she snapped.

“I believe I can and I shall, Leave, Myrtice - _now_.”

She took a step towards him and prodded his chest with her finger. “No. I refuse to be ordered about by a dirty little faggot such as you.”

“Don’t you dare talk to him like that!” Sherlock snarled at the old woman.

“Or what?” She demanded. “What are you going to do, baby faggot?”

“You can’t even imagine the things I could do to you to make you suffer,” he threatened.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft warned, his voice low. “Remember we have company.” The majority of the party guests had stopped what they were doing to watch the confrontation.

Mummy snapped out of her shock at seeing the woman here, and hurried over. “Myrtice, you are no longer welcome in this house,” she told her, as politely as she could. “I’d appreciate it if you left.”

“Here’s the woman of the hour,” the old woman sneered. “I can see where your sons get their arrogance from - you think you’re too good for this family, above all of us. You look down on us Holmes’ like we’re the dirt beneath your feet. Well, I’m here to tell you that you’re not better than us, missy!”

“Oh, Myrtice,” Mummy said, and she suddenly looked sad. “Look around you - you’ll see most of the family are here. It’s only you who isn’t welcome.”

Myrtice did indeed look around, but the family members in attendance either refused to meet her eyes, or were staring at her in anger. She had been nasty and cruel to all of them at some point, and it appeared no one was willing to come to her aid. “Cowards, the lot of you!” she snarled. “You’ve all fallen under the spell of this witch, whose womb was so corrupted the only children she could birth were either psychotic or pansy little homos who take it up the arse.”

“The only witch here is you, you evil old hag,” Sherlock snapped.

Mummy’s eyes flashed and her back straightened as she faced down the woman. “I will not have you speaking about my children like that. Get out, Myrtice, or I will call the police and have you escorted out.”

Mark appeared at their side and said quietly to Mummy, “Would you like me to show her out?”

He had changed his posture, bearing, and expression, and had undergone a miraculous transformation. Whereas all day he had looked nothing more like a tall, skinny, geek, now he oozed authority and danger, every inch a secret agent. Mycroft felt a flush of pride at the young man, never ceasing to be amazed at just how talented and well suited to his job he was.

“Yes, please, Mark,” Mummy answered. “I would appreciate that.”

“If you’ll come with me, ma’am,” Mark said, his tone polite but so steeped in authority that the old woman instantly obeyed.

The brothers followed along, and Mycroft shot Sherlock a warning look, a silent order to keep his mouth shut so as not to inflame the situation any further. His baby brother pouted but complied, contenting himself to shooting daggers at her from his eyes.

They reached the front door and Mark held it open for their great aunt. She suddenly looked old and sad and Mycroft felt a moment’s pity for her. “I hope your final years bring you some peace, Auntie,” he told her gently. “Let go of your anger and your hatred and try and find happiness.”

She sneered at him. “I’m not going to take life advice from devil spawn like you. You’re going to burn in the deepest pits of hell, faggot, and I’ll be watching from above, gleeful over your eternal torture. You’ll learn just how wicked you’ve been, and will regret the choices you’ve made.”

“I highly doubt I’ll ever regret my choices, Auntie, but you are entitled to your opinion, no matter how hateful it is.”

“The only hateful thing here is you and your cock sucking piece of shit of a little brother,” she spat.

“Looks like there’s three hateful things,” Mark told her pleasantly, and then he turned to Mycroft, grabbed his lapels, and proceeded to snog him.

Once he was finally released, Mycroft rocked back on his heels in shock, but did notice the look of horror on the old woman’s face. He looked across to Sherlock, worried at his reaction but all he found was an evil gleefulness. The detective turned his great aunt around and gave her a push to get her moving out the door. He lifted up a hand and waggled his fingers at her in farewell and then slammed the door.

The three men stood in silence for a few moments, and then the younger two started giggling. “Sorry, Sher,” Mark said, once he could control his laughter. “I hope I didn’t upset you - just pounced on the opportunity to make a point.”

“I don’t mind at all.”

“You’re not going to kill me in my sleep during a fit of jealous rage?”

“I shall fight to control my urges, but you should live to see another day.”

“That’s very magnanimous of you.”

“That’s just the sort of person I am.”

“You’re really not. Perhaps I _should_ sleep with one eye open.”

“You should be doing that anyway. What kind of rubbish spy are you?”

“I think you just answered that.”

“Besides, I know that Mr Spurty isn’t interested in what’s beneath Mycie’s clothes, so there’s no reason to be jealous.”

“This is true. Snogging the Holmes brothers is only something I do when called upon for the greater good.”

“Your sacrifices are noted, and I’ll make sure your superiors are informed.”

“I’m pretty sure one of them already has been informed, though I might have broken him.” Mark peered at Mycroft who was doing a good job of impersonating a fish, gaping at them with his mouth open.

“Are you alright, brother mine?” Sherlock asked.

Mycroft mentally shook himself and blinked rapidly, pulling himself back into the real world. He looked at the two men in exasperation and then, of all the questions firing through his brain, asked the most important one of all. “Who the hell is this _Mr Spurty_ you two are always going on about?”

A moment later when Mummy appeared, it was to find Sherlock and Mark laughing so hard they were almost crying, and a very confused looking Mycroft. Seeing as the source of trouble was gone, she chose not to question and just herded them all back out to the garden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mr Spurty returns!!!!


	41. Chapter 41

The party was finally over, and Sherlock could finally breathe again. This was exactly the reason why he avoided such situations - annoying relatives, unwanted suitors, and more drama than was necessary. There had been parts he’d enjoyed, but that was more down to the company he chose to keep - Mycroft’s and Mark’s - but overall, he was extremely happy he wouldn’t have to suffer through something like this again.

He finished piling tablecloths into the laundry hamper for Mummy, and then went in search of his brother, who seemed to have disappeared sometime back. He headed upstairs to their bedroom and opened the door quietly, not wanting to disturb the older man if he was already asleep. Mycroft was indeed in the room, and was standing in front of the mirror, his shirt pulled up and grasping at the tiny roll of fat on his stomach and looking at it in disgust. His head snapped up as he saw Sherlock and he quickly dropped the shirt back down and moved over to his overnight bag. He rummaged through it, trying to act like nothing had happened. “Mummy ended up having a good afternoon,.” he commented.

Sherlock closed the door and crossed to his brother, guilt washing over him. He knew exactly what had caused Mycroft’s descent into self loathing - if asked, his brother would say that he had known Sherlock had said such nasty things earlier to uphold the facade of brotherly squabbling, but of course the younger man should have known better. He couldn’t understand why Mycroft had such a low self esteem since he thought he was the sexiest man on the planet, but that didn’t stop his brother from hating his appearance. Sherlock’s cruel comments - even though made during a ploy to hide their relationship - had clearly struck a chord and now his brother was hurting.

He pulled Mycroft into his arms and kissed him soundly. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, and then squeezed him even tighter.

“For what?” Mycroft asked, his voice flat.

“For saying those horrible things. I didn’t mean them, Mycie, I promise.”

“I know you didn’t,” he replied, his face sad. “That doesn’t make them untrue though.”

“But they’re  _ not _ true!”

“Oh, Sherlock, who would ever have guessed you’d lie to spare someone’s feelings?”

He huffed. “I’m not! Dammit, Mycie, why won’t you believe me? Why can’t you see what I see?”

“Because you view me through rose tinted glasses, brother mine. You are incapable of seeing the truth.”

“And what truth is that?”

“That I have allowed my healthy eating and exercise regime to slip this past half a year. I had been doing well, and was only a few pounds off my goal weight, but I am now further from my goal than I have been in years.”

Sherlock fought the impulse to throttle his brother. How could a man so smart, so intelligent, be so utterly stupid when it came to such a matter? “Mycroft,” he said, as patiently as he could. “What can I do to convince you that you do not need to lose weight?”

“Nothing - because one cannot argue with facts.”

“Fine,” he said, coming to a decision. “Then I shall convince you with facts.” He strode from the bedroom and disappeared into the bathroom, coming back with the digital scales tucked under his arm. “Jump on,” he said after he’d placed them on a clear section of floorboards.

Mycroft blushed. “I’d rather not.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want you to think less of me.”

“I won’t think less of you just because you’re wrong.”

Mycroft glared at him. “You’ll think less of me when you see how flabby I am!”

“I’ve touched, kissed, and licked every inch of you, brother mine, and I can assure you, you are not flabby.”

“The scales do not lie, Sherlock.”

“Then get on.”

“No.”

“Get.On.”

“What are you trying to prove?”

He huffed again, wondering if a smack or two would help to make his point. He then stood on the scales and gestured at the figure, making sure Mycroft saw it. “You’re always going on about how lean I am, so I assume you believe I am at an acceptable weight.”

“I suppose so,” Mycroft agreed, his tone hesitant, wondering where this was going. “Though truth be told, you might need to gain several pounds to be considered ‘healthy’.”

Sherlock fought down the smirk that tried to form on his lips. “Will you please humour me, and get on the scales?”

Mycroft sighed, but moved forward. “Very well, but when you can’t look at me anymore because of how disgusting I am, I hope you’ll remember this moment.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and watched as Mycroft stepped onto the scales, refusing to look down at the numbers that flashed up on the display. “Just as I thought,” he said in triumph. “You’re an inch taller than me and so should weigh more, but in fact, brother mine, you are four pounds lighter.”

Mycroft’s head whipped down to look for himself and he shook his head. “No, that can’t be right.” He stepped off the scales and moved them a little, ensuring they were level. He stepped back on and the same number appeared. “I, I don’t understand,” he confessed.

Sherlock sighed and then took him by the arm and led him over to the bed. “Your silly brain has been twisting the facts when it comes to this,” he said gently. “In your head you picture yourself as someone who is horribly overweight, and it obscures the truth. You may not be as toned as you once were, but that comes with getting older - but the fact is, you are not fat, Mycie. But even if you were heavier, I wouldn’t love you any less. You could be twice the size as you are now and I’d still want you as much as I want you now.”

“But how? I’m already unattractive, I’m sure you’d find me repulsive if I was morbidly obese.”

Sherlock kissed him tenderly and pulled him against him. “You are the most beautiful man I have ever seen - just the sight of you makes me hard. But it’s not just what you look like that makes me react so, but because you are  _ you _ . You could gain weight, lose weight, get horribly disfigured, go totally bald, lose all your teeth - no matter what happens to your physical appearance, I would still want you because you would still be  _ you _ .”

“Having no teeth wouldn’t be too much of a hardship,” Mycroft said. “I’m sure the blow jobs would be phenomenal.”

Sherlock laughed, glad his brother could still crack a joke. “Then I’m sure I’d drop dead from pleasure since they’re so bloody good already.” He brushed his fingers softly over his cheek. “Now that I’ve destroyed your argument using facts, are you feeling any better?”

Mycroft shrugged. “A little, but I don’t know if I’ll ever see myself the way you obviously do.”

He gave him a small smile. “As long as you accept that I’m telling the truth when I tell you how I feel about you.”

The door opened and Mark stepped inside, but he paused as he took in the scene. “Erm, I think I’m going to head outside and make sure they have everything under control out there,” he said. “I might not be back for about an hour…”

Sherlock grinned. “Make it an hour and a half?”

Mark nodded. “Can do. Have fun.”

He left, shutting the door behind him. Sherlock pushed Mycroft down onto his back and straddled his hips, not wanting to waste a second of the alone time their friend had just gifted them with. “I think perhaps it’s best if I give you a physical demonstration of my feelings on the matter,” he said.

“But everyone will be going to bed soon,” Mycroft protested weakly.

“Then it will just have to be a quiet demonstration.” He leaned forward and caught him in a passionate kiss, determined to add a few facts to his argument.

 

 


	42. Chapter 42

John had to be back in London by lunchtime on Monday as Rosie had an appointment to get her next vaccinations, and instead of having a driver pick the three of them up, Mycroft agreed to return with John. It would be cramped in his car, what with the car seat and four grown men, but it made sense to carpool. He put his hand over his mouth to cover a yawn as he watched John load up the boot with their bags, and Sherlock strap the toddler into her seat. Mummy stood next to him, looking tired and wan.

“Are you okay?” he asked her, a crease of worry between his brows.

“I’m just tired, dear. It was a long day yesterday. I’m looking forward to putting my feet up.”

He frowned, but didn't say anything, knowing Mummy hated being nagged about her health. If she was coming down with something, Father would make sure she got the rest she needed and saw a doctor if it was more than just a cold. There was also the possibility he was reading too much into the dark rings under her eyes - the weekend  _ had  _ been rather full on, and Myrtice turning up hadn’t helped matters, plus it wasn’t quite dawn yet.

Mummy pulled him into a hug as John shut the boot, squeezing him tightly. “Thank you for all your help, Myc. It was lovely having all you boys here.”

He bit down a retort at her calling them ‘boys’, and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I hope you had an enjoyable time.”

“I did.”

She then doled out hugs and kisses to the rest of them, causing Mark to blush as she gave him an extra kiss. “Drive carefully, John,” she told him. “Myc, text me when you’re home so I know you got back safely.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You’d think the motorway was some kind of demolition derby, the way you worry.”

“I am your mother, Sherlock which gives me the right to worry.”

Father had ambled out to say goodbye and he wrapped an arm around her waist. “Just smile and accept it, son. She’ll never stop worrying about you - it’s just what she does.”

They piled into the car - Mark being the tallest took the front seat, and Mycroft sat behind John since his legs were slightly longer than his brother’s - and after a final wave at the Holmes parents, were heading back to London. It was so early that Rosie immediately fell back to sleep thanks to the gentle rocking motion of the car.

“Sherlock, what do you have planned for tonight?” John asked after they had been driving for a while.

“I’m not sure. Why?”

“Will you be at Mycroft’s or Baker Street?”

“I guess it depends on if Mycie is working. I ask again - why?”

John blushed and kept his eyes firmly on the road. “I had a text from Jonathon asking if I’d like to get together tonight. I figured I’d invite him round if you were going to be out.”

“Planning on sex on the first date?” the detective asked, a note of shock in his voice.

The doctor blushed an even deeper shade of crimson, and Mycroft fought down a wave of...was it jealousy? No, it couldn’t be, since he didn't care if the two men had sex, it was something else, something he couldn’t quite quantify or describe. It seemed to revolve around the fact that John’s interest in the professor proved he still had not gotten over his infatuation with Sherlock and it would be impossible for his mind to separate them, much as it had been for Mycroft. The thought of John thinking of Sherlock whilst making love with Jonathon disturbed him greatly. 

John sputtered. “No! It’s just you seemed to have a problem with him - probably the fact he has a history with your brother, and I didn't want to make you uncomfortable. If you’ll be home, I can arrange it for another day, or perhaps I can meet him elsewhere.”

“What about Rosie?”

“I can either see if Mrs Hudson can watch her, or we’ll go to a cafe and she’ll come along.”

“Do you really want her exposed to that sort of conversation? You’re going to be talking about your experiences in the middle east,”

“She’s too young to understand, Sherlock.”

“Is she? She understands more than we think she does.”

That ominous warning sent a shiver down Mycroft’s spine. Rosie had already, innocently, almost given away their secret. If she had dropped such a bombshell in front of someone who had a suspicious nature, or who could put two and two together, then the game would be up. 

“I’m sure it will be fine.”

“Sherlock, is there any need for this argument?” Mycroft asked, cutting smoothly across the retort already on Sherlock’s lips. “Unless a world war breaks out, my presence at the office tonight will not be required, so there will be no reason to not stay at my place.”

“Thank you, Mycroft,” John said, genuine gratitude in his voice. 

Sherlock clamped his lips shut, obviously wanting to continue arguing with his flatmate, but not wanting to upset his brother - the latter winning out. “Fine, but do try to refrain from copulating on the couch.”

“Really?” John demanded. “You’re really going to make that stipulation when I know for a  _ fact _ that you and Mycroft have done every nasty thing under the sun on that couch!”

“I thought you said you weren’t planning on having sex on the first date?” Sherlock griped.

“I’m more interested in how he knew what you and Mycroft have gotten up to,” Mark commented.

“That’s not important,” Sherlock protested. “But what he - wait, no, actually, it  _ is _ important. How  _ did _ you know, John?”

“Oh, so you don’t deny it?”

“Of course not - I’ve had a  _ very _ enjoyable time on that couch, in many different positions and many different ways.”

“Ew, icky. Remind me never to sit on that again,” Mark said. 

Mycroft remained silent, his face flaming from embarrassment, and feeling thankful the toddler was still sound asleep. He wondered how much it would hurt if he opened the car and jumped from it right this moment. They couldn’t be travelling more than a hundred kilometers an hour. Surely he’d survive that, wouldn’t he? The chances seemed much better than surviving this conversation.

“Don’t be daft,” Sherlock said to the MI5 agent. “Any mess we made was usually licked up afterwards, and if not, I got it with a flannel.”

“Okay, that is  _ way _ too much information,” Mark said, while John cried, “Sherlock!”, and Mycroft started looking for a soft patch of verge to leap onto.

“Bodily fluids are a completely natural part of a healthy, sexual relationship,” the detective was lecturing. “The fact that you both appear to find that disgusting is a testament to neither of you progressing past puberty.”

“I’m a doctor, you berk,” John snapped. “I  _ know _ it’s natural - my problem is that you seem to not care about splashing those fluids all over our shared living space!”

“There is no  _ splashing _ involved, John. Fluids are generally caught in the mouth or other orifice and mess is rare.”

So maybe there wasn’t any soft grass lining the road on this stretch of motorway, but that jumble of rocks looked like it would provide a nice, cushiony landing for one, fleeing diplomat. Although it was quickly getting to the point where survival wasn’t ranking very high on Mycroft’s list of priorities. 

“You’ve already admitted to having to clean up with a flannel - you clearly don’t catch every last drop!”

“And you are dissembling from the original point,” Sherlock argued. “ _ How _ do you know exactly what Mycroft and I have gotten up to on the couch?“

“Because I’ve walked in on you numerous times but you’re both so bloody caught up in what you’re doing that you haven’t noticed once!” John practically yelled.

Yes, death was looking like the much better option.

Mark had burst out laughing, but was attempting to stifle it so he didn't wake Rosie, and Sherlock was gaping at John from the back seat. The doctor was still a luminous shade of red, but now it wasn’t solely from embarrassment, but also from frustration. “Oh,” was all the lanky, younger man could manage.

The doctor took a deep breath and slowly released it. “Right, so it’s agreed - you’ll stay at Mycroft’s tonight?” he said, benevolently changing the subject.

“Yes, yes I will,” Sherlock managed to say.

“Right, well, that’s settled then,” John said.

They fell into an awkward silence, and Mycroft figured he was no longer the only one contemplating a sudden, but welcome death.

Some distance up the road was an illuminated sign, signalling a service station, and Mark turned to face the car’s occupants. “Who’s up for coffee?” he asked brightly.

There were nods of assent all round, and John swerved into the turning lane, eager to be free of the confines of the car so the awkwardness could disperse.

 

 

 

 


	43. Chapter 43

Lestrade’s office was empty when Sherlock arrived at Scotland Yard the following day, and he paused in the doorway to let his eyes roam the bullpen for the silver haired detective. He spotted him heading over, and the DI’s warm eyes crinkled into a smile. “Hi Sherlock, sorry, I didn't think you’d make it here this quickly,” he said by way of an apology, waving him into the office. “Were you not at Baker Street?”

The detective gave himself a mental shake, a reminder that Lestrade wasn’t one of the imbecile masses, and actually noticed things like that. It took almost twice as long to get to the Yard from 221B than it did from Mycroft’s house, and he couldn’t even attempt to convince the man he’d been lucky with traffic. Best stick to the truth then - well, _most_ of the truth. “I was at my brother’s house. I spent most of last night working on an experiment in my lab and there was little point in returning home in the early hours of the morning, so I stayed there.” He _had_ spent some time in his lab the previous afternoon, but for the majority of the time, he had been in Mycroft’s bed. His brother had been hesitant to let him go without an MI5 escort, but had acquiesced when Sherlock had reminded him that Lestrade was more than capable of keeping him safe.

The DI nodded in acknowledgment and pushed a file across the desk to the consulting detective. “Your brother is good people, Sherlock.”

He hesitated in picking up the file. “How so?”

“Not many people would allow their younger brother - who has a history of having experiments blow up in his face - to take over so much space at their house for a chemistry lab. He’s a very generous man.”

He gave a derisive snort, but wondered what it would feel like to be able to speak honestly with the man in front of him, to be able to agree, and then discuss his brother’s finer attributes? However much he wished to be able to do so, he knew he could not. Too many people already knew about their clandestine relationship, and that wasn’t a position he wanted to put the DI in. The man had already overlooked so much over the years, that it would be disrespectful to the highest degree to ask him to look the other way yet again when a law was being broken. Lestrade was one of the few people who had earned Sherlock’s respect, and that meant something to the curly haired detective. “So, what did you need me for?” he asked, changing the subject.

“I’ve got a bloke, Harold Rourke, in interrogation at the moment. His wife and daughter are missing, and although he’s claiming to not know anything, I know he’s lying.”

“He filed a missing persons report for them two days ago?”

“Yeah, he did.”

“And why are you even looking into it? Most would assume she had packed up and left with the child, escaping a bad marriage perhaps.”

“In the report, Rourke claimed that they weren’t suffering any marital problems. He also states that no clothes or possessions are missing, and that there were signs of a struggle in the kitchen.”

Sherlock pulled out the photos from the file that showed the kitchen space. He pursed his lips as he examined them. “This looks like an art school photo shoot,” he muttered.

“That’s what the DCs who went to survey the house thought as well. The kitchen has definitely been staged. That’s the reason I was called in.”

“And I assume he’s protesting his innocence by claiming he’d have to be stupid to file a missing person’s report and urge an investigation if he had actually done something to them?”

“Yep, his words almost to the letter.”

“But you believe he’s lying?”

“He’s a slimy one - he says all the right words, and acts like the distraught husband, but he’s hiding something. His story is too rehearsed, it never changes, he never remembers anything else or gets small details mixed up like normal people do in his situation.” He ran a hand through his silver locks, looking despondent. “I’ve tried applying pressure, but I don’t have anything solid I can use as leverage to force him to confess. I’m hoping you can deduce something about him that we can use to scare him into confessing.”

Sherlock glanced at the family portrait that had been added to the file, ignoring the fact that the daughter was roughly the same age as Rosie. “You think they could still be alive?”

Lestrade tilted his head and quirked his lips. “I don’t know. I think it could go either way - Rourke’s either done them in and is trying to appear like the desperate husband and father, or he’s hidden them away and when they’re found, he can ride the wave of community support that will flow his way. He’s definitely a narcissist who will spin this whole thing to be about him, I just can’t get a read on how far he’s willing to go. What I’m concerned about the most is that we’ve had him here since last night - if they are still alive, has anyone been looking after them? On one hand I think he’d have to have hired someone to do that so he can appear innocent to them as well as to us, but on the other, he’s an arrogant sod who probably thinks wearing a mask will be enough to hide his identity from his wife and child.” He ran another hand through his hair, making it stick up at odd angles but not even noticing due to how agitated the case was making him. “If it’s the latter, then I don’t want to hold him much longer - maybe he’ll even lead us to them? But I think he’s too smart for that. As much as it pains me to admit, I think he’ll let them starve to save himself.”

Sherlock nodded, noting that in the interviews with colleagues, it had been raised that he was under an investigation at work in his accounting firm for making a rather large error that had cost the company tens of thousands. He had suffered disciplinary action and was under a lot of stress, though the general consensus was it was a rookie mistake for someone so experienced and he deserved the punishment. This could be a way of changing the direction of sympathy his colleagues felt from the company back to himself. Would that have been enough to make him go to such lengths? And if so, how _far_ would he have gone?

“Do you want to be present during our chat? Or do you prefer to observe from the outside?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock considered this. “I’ll start off in the observation room, but if I need to push him in a certain direction to gauge his reactions, I’ll let you know.”

“Right, well let’s do this. He’s had enough of a break from questioning now.” The DI stood and led Sherlock through to the part of the building where the interrogation rooms were. Donovan was waiting for them, and she gave Sherlock a small nod of greeting. He returned it, upholding the uneasy truce that had descended upon them. He ducked into the first room so he could watch from the other side of the mirrored glass.

The two coppers entered the room, and took a seat in front of the man who was seated, but not handcuffed, at the table. He was in his early thirties, with a square jaw, darkened with stubble, and heavy brows. His was handsome in a typical, middle class way, and he sat with a straight back. Despite the cocoon of worry he had drawn about himself, he exuded confidence. “Have you had any luck finding my wife and daughter?” he asked.

“No, Mr Rourke, we have not,” Lestrade told him. “We’re still hoping that you can help us find them. How about we go over the events of that morning one more time?”

The man sighed, but nodded. “I’m still not sure what else I can tell you, but if you think it will help.” He launched into his story, and as the DI had said, it was almost a recital. Sherlock analysed every small detail he could while listening, and trailed his eyes over the suspect. He noticed an odd mark on the back of the man’s jeans, just behind the calf. The detective flipped through the file again, noting the home address, and then pulled up a map of the area. He was sure he was right, but with the lives of the wife and daughter at stake, he wanted to be sure. The map confirmed his memory and he quickly left the room and strode into the interrogation room. It was testament to how desperate Lestrade was that he didn’t chastise him for following procedures and be escorted in by the DI.

“Check his shoes,” Sherlock ordered, glaring at Rourke who had started to protest at the interruption.

“His shoes?” Donovan asked, but had stood anyway and was making her way around the table.

“There’s a smudge of dust on the back of his jeans, what looks to be brick dust. They live near the old railway workshops, and if I’m right, there will be small pieces of brick and dust in the tread of his shoes. The clay they made those bricks out of at the time had a high iron content and is a darker red than normal.”

Rourke’s eyes had gone wide, and he tried to keep Donovan from getting near his shoes by tucking them under the chair. “What the hell is this? Who is this man?” he demanded.

“He’s a consultant with the Yard, Mr Rourke,” Lestrade told him. “He’s here on my request. Now, allow the Detective Sergeant to examine your shoes or it will be done forcefully.”

The fight seemed to go out of the man and he slumped down in the chair, allowing Donovan to look at the bottom of his shoes. Sherlock handed her a glove and she slipped it on, pulling from the tread a shard of a dark, red brick. “As expected, sir,” she told Lestrade. “The treads are full of brick dust.”

“Is there anything you’d like to tell us?” he asked Rourke. The accountant clamped his lips shut and shook his head, refusing to look at the DI. Lestrade nodded and stood. “Right, bag his shoes, and then let’s go.”

With a final glare at the suspect, Sherlock followed the DI from the room. Although he had only been called in to observe the interrogation of the man, there was no question in his mind that he needed to accompany them to the scene. He even went with the two coppers instead of taking a cab. There was a sense of urgency thrumming deep inside the lanky detective, and he found himself fidgeting as they approached their destination.

As soon as the car had pulled to a stop outside of the old workshops, the three were out of the car and heading for the gate. “Padlock has been cut but arranged so as to look as it’s still locked,” Sherlock noted.

Lestrade nodded, and gestured to the officers who had arrived as backup to follow him. He pushed the gate open and they moved towards the old building. The main door was locked up tight, but there was a smaller entrance to the side which was unlocked. They slipped inside, on guard in case Rourke had arranged for someone to care for the woman and child whilst he played worried husband and father. The space inside was cavernous, but an office with large glass windows overlooking the floor was up on the mezzanine level. The officers fanned out, searching the ground floor, and Lestrade and Sherlock headed for the stairs. He followed right on the older man’s heels as they made their way up to the landing. There was a small kitchen and what appeared to be a bathroom to the left, but both men instinctively knew they had to check the office first.

“On three,” Lestrade mouthed to Sherlock.

He nodded and watched as the DI placed a hand on the handle and counted. He hit three and they burst through the door, their eyes adjusting to the dimmer light inside. They both froze for a long moment as they registered the sight before them, and Sherlock suddenly found it very hard to breathe.

Laying together on the floor on the far side of the office, were the bodies of Rourke’s wife and child. They had been dead for days.


	44. Chapter 44

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some fluff to help after last chapter :)

It was early evening by the time Sherlock left the Yard, hailing a cab and directing the driver to Baker Street. Mark had suggested they change up where they stay as a security measure, and although the brothers had argued against it, John had agreed with Mark that with the security surrounding the place, he and Rosie would be safe enough. In the end, they had compromised on one or two nights a week at 221B until the situation was resolved, starting tonight. Mark would arrive late, as he had been given the day off, but would get there in time to stand guard overnight. Mycroft had messaged and advised he had already left the office and it was likely he’d be at the flat when the Detective got home. It was a great comfort knowing that his brother was staying the night and would be waiting for him, and he spent the ride home trying to forget about the tragedy from earlier in the day. He had returned to the Yard after scene had been processed and had sat in with Lestrade as they had confronted Rourke. The confession had chilled Sherlock to the bone, which rattled him more than he had expected - he had heard and seen much worse over the years, and he couldn’t understand why this case was so different.

The reason hit him as soon as he walked in the door at Baker Street. Mycroft was on the couch and Rosie was serving him ‘tea’ in a tiny plastic cup. John was sitting in his armchair and was also holding a miniature cup, and both men looked slightly sheepish to be caught participating in the tea party. Rosie turned when she heard the door and grinned up at the tall detective. She held up her little pink teapot and asked, “Tea?”

Sherlock scooped her into his arms and squeezed her as tightly as he dared - trying his best to not hurt her, but needing to reassure himself that she was safe and unharmed. The image of the dead girl had been distorting in his mind all day; her face being replaced with that of the toddler he was currently cuddling. She wrapped her arms around his neck and returned the hug, but started wriggling after a while, indicating she wanted down. He regretfully let her go, but not before he whispered how much he loved her in her ear. “I love Sher Sher, too,” she said solemnly.

“Is everything okay?” John asked, his face mirroring the concerned look that Mycroft wore.

Sherlock slumped down onto the couch next to his brother, the last of his energy reserves leaving him. “I helped Lestrade with a case today.” He cut eyes towards Rosie who was busy rummaging in a plastic tub for another cup. “It was the worst possible outcome and it hit a little close to home.”

“Ah,” John said, sympathy in his eyes as he grasped his meaning.

Although they had agreed they would have to curb their affection in front of the child, Mycroft lay an arm over his shoulder in a one-armed hug. Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, wanting to be closer but knowing it would have to wait until Rosie was put to bed. After a moment, he felt a tugging on his trouser leg and he opened his eyes to see Rosie standing in front of him. “Tea,” she told him, handing over a cup.

“Why thank you,” he murmured, accepting the gift.

She clambered up onto the couch and took his face between her small hands and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Sher Sher sad. Kiss makes better.”

He laughed softly. “You are too sweet, Rosie. Thank you for making me feel better.”

She turned to Mycroft and tugged on his shirt. “Sher Sher sad. Kiss better.” It was a demand.

The older man blushed a little, and it was clear he had no idea what to say. Rosie had seen them exchange kisses hundreds of times, and they hadn’t discussed what they would say if she noticed they had stopped. “Erm,” was the articulate response from the British Government.

“Kiss Sher Sher!” she repeated, a glare on her small face.

Mycroft leaned over and dutifully placed a kiss on his brother’s cheek, and Sherlock could feel through that gesture just how much Mycroft wanted to do more - to hold him close, and assure him everything would be fine, to pepper him with kisses and make him forget the horrible sights of the day. The longing he felt to be able to do all those things was equally as deep.

The toddler’s face scrunched up in confusion and she looked from one brother to the other. She shook her head and reached out to touch Mycroft’s lips. “No,” she told him. “Kiss.”

John burst out laughing, knowing the three grownups had been bested by a tiny human.”You’d better do as she says,” he told them. “She might get upset at you if you don’t.”

“But, how are we going to explain it?” Sherlock asked, dumbfounded.

John shrugged. “We’ll think of something. At the end of the day I’d rather she be exposed to a genuine love such as yours than some of the toxic relationships that are passed off as love these days.”

He felt one of Mycroft’s hands cup his jaw and turn his head to face him. “I for one am not inclined to ignore a direct order from our little dictator.”

“That’s not a nice thing to call John,” Sherlock said with a smirk.

“Oi!” John protested, but if he said anything else it was blanked out of Sherlock’s mind when Mycroft leaned forward and kissed him.

It was chaste and sweet but something he needed very much. Mycroft’s eyes were full of love and warmth and a promise of more when they finally were alone. There was a triumphant sort of hum and they both turned to see Rosie looking very pleased with herself. She climbed down and went over to her father, holding out the teapot. “More?” she asked.

“Oh, no, I’m fine, love. If I have anymore tea I won’t fit in my dinner.” He patted at his tummy to indicate how he was fit to bursting with imaginary tea. “Speaking of dinner, it should be almost ready so why don’t you pack away your toys?”

She pouted at him but dutifully started collecting the cups from her customers, and didn’t even seem to notice that Mycroft’s hand had dropped down to clasp firmly with Sherlock’s.

~~~~~~~~

Rosie had long gone to bed, and John had retired for the evening as well when Mark arrived. The young man looked energetic and refreshed as he entered, his hazel eyes lighting up as he grinned at them. “Hello! I know you’ve both been devastated during my absence today, and will have most likely spent the whole evening consoling each other, but it’s alright now because I’m here!”

Sherlock snorted out a laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of his friend, but he saw Mycroft’s brow crease in worry. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

Mycroft sighed. “I’ve just had a sudden attack of the guilts,” he told them. “Mark, I have been horribly selfish - monopolising your time like this. You must be longing for this to be over more so than I. You’ve hardly had a moment to yourself since this started.”

The detective tried not to gape at his brother. It was a testament to how much he had grown to like the young agent, as Mycroft would never usually think twice about how such a task would affect someone personally. Mark seemed to understand this as well and he shook his head with a smile. “Don’t waste any of your worry on me, Mycroft. You’ve already given me a few days off, which is something we both know I wouldn’t have gotten if I was on assignment anywhere else. Part and parcel of the job is to stick with a target until it’s done, and you’re more than aware that this is nowhere near my longest assignment. Yes, it’s not what I’d usually be doing, but I get to spend my time with two of my best friends, so that takes the sting out of the long hours and lack of social life.”

Sherlock’s first instinct was to scoff at the sheer sentiment of Mark’s statement, but he resisted, and instead allowed himself to bask in the warm glow of how the words had made him feel. John had been the only one to ever call him his ‘best friend’, but now someone else had done so. Sherlock found that the lack of novelty in no way diminished how special it made him feel. Allowing himself the time for this self reflection and acknowledging the result was an indicator of how much he had grown over the past few years, but he still wasn’t _quite_ at the point where he could easily express out loud his feelings (unless of course it was directed at his brother). “Spending time with you is not overly a hardship for us, either,” was what he could manage to say. “When this fiasco is over and done, I will probably find myself at a loss when I turn around and don’t see you, perching like a scarecrow, at the window.”

“Awww, he does love me!” Mark said brightly to Mycroft, and he pulled Sherlock into a bear hug.

The wind was forced from his lungs, so he was unable to reply, but Mycroft filled the void instead. Of course, his was a much more diplomatic response than the snarky reply Sherlock had formulated in his head. “We are both very fond of you, Mark, and it will be odd when this is over and done with to not have you around as often.”

The young man freed the detective from his crushing hug, ignoring the scowl on Sherlock’s face. “Yes, well, you won’t be rid of me so easily,” he told Mycroft. “I’ll still pop round to visit - it’ll just be with the intention of having a cuppa and not preventing an attempt on your life.”

“You’re always most welcome in either of our homes.”

“I think I might vomit,” Sherlock declared. “If either of you starts weaving friendship bracelets, I vow to disown both of you from my life entirely.”

“Fine, I’ll stop being a sappy sod,” Mark told him. He looked over at the couch where a pillow and a neatly folded blanket had been placed on the end. “Looks like my bed is set up for the night. Do you have a black light I can use to figure out which end is less smeared with bodily fluids?”

“I believe both ends have been thoroughly saturated,” Sherlock told him with glee. “You shall find that whichever end you chose to lay your head at, neither will offer any respite from the knowledge that my genitals have been rubbed all over the leather.”

“Joyful. I guess I shall resign myself to my fate and will spend the night inhaling the scent of your musk.That way, if I’m ever called to the morgue to identify your body, all I’ll have to do is have a good sniff of your nether regions to know it’s you.”

“A disgusting, but pre-emptive use of your time tonight. You should be commended.”

“On that note, I believe we shall retire,” Mycroft announced, his cheeks flushed crimson.

Mark laughed and then surprised Mycroft by pulling him into a hug. “See, I wouldn’t have _this_ on any other job.” Though if he was talking about the hug or the conversation about Eau De Detective, Sherlock couldn’t be sure. The agent released the diplomat and gave them both a smile. “Goodnight, guys. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Sherlock allowed Mycroft to take his hand and lead him down the hall to the bedroom, where they undressed and climbed into bed. He had worried that he would close his eyes and all he would see were images of the dead child from the crime scene, but instead, he drifted on a warm cloud of contentment, knowing that under this roof were most of the people he loved in this world, and they were safe and secure. Mycroft rolled over and slipped an arm over his waist and pressed close against his back and that was all it took to push him the last few inches into the world of sleep.


	45. Chapter 45

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a Sunday Double!

The following morning was spent in a sort of domestic bliss that Mycroft had never expected he would a) get to enjoy, and b)  _ actually _ enjoy. It was true that he had come to cherish the quiet moments spent with Sherlock when they were home alone, both doing their own thing but doing them together. This though was a different sort of domesticity, more encompassing. His brother and his little scientist were in the sitting room; the lanky detective was sitting with his long legs crossed, a pile of connective blocks next to him, and the toddler was watching with wide eyes as he recreated various molecules. “This is an iron-sulphur cluster,” he explained, as he clipped in one last piece and handed it over. 

“Iron sofa,” Rosie confirmed with a nod as she grasped the contraption.

Meanwhile in the kitchen, Mark was making pancakes for everyone, John was at the table reading the paper, and Mycroft was making coffee. As they worked, Mycroft and the young agent moved around each other with an ease that only came from spending a certain amount of time together. As guilty as he’d been feeling the night before for monopolising the man’s time, he was grateful that he was in the position to be able to chose who was assigned to them. Having a different agent who he didn't know or trust as much, would have been awkward to say the least. This felt natural, despite the circumstances, and was more enjoyable than it should have been. He’d long stopped thinking of the man as an employee and considered him a friend, but now he had to acknowledge that he now felt like family. It brought back memories of Sherlock’s outburst all that time ago, when Mycroft had sat in the client chair and asked for John to leave, citing ‘ _ This is family’.  _ His brother had been so adamant when he’d retorted, ‘ _ That’s  _ **_why_ ** _ he stays _ ’, something Mycroft hadn’t understood at the time. Then, family meant blood, but now he was learning that family could also mean those you chose to be family.

And in typical familial fashion, nothing was sacred. “So,” Mark said as he poured batter into the pan, “is no one going to tell me the goss?”

“What gossip would that be?” Mycroft asked as he placed a mug of coffee on the bench for the agent.

“Ah, how did the date go on Monday night?” he replied, as if it should have been obvious.

John didn't look up from the paper as he said, in a tone that indicated he’d repeated this more than once, “It  _ wasn’t _ a date.”

“It was definitely a date,” Sherlock quipped from the sitting room.

Mark grinned as Mycroft nodded his agreement, and John looked up from the paper to glare at them. “He came here, I made us tea, he asked me about my time in Afghanistan, and he left. Clearly not a date.”

“So there wasn’t any kissing?” Mark asked, a cheeky grin on his face.

“No!” John said, but he had flushed dark red, indicating he’d wished there had been.

“That’s a shame. So, I guess that’s it then? Chance over, opportunity passed, never to occur again?”

“Well, no...we’ve arranged to meet up for another chat since he didn’t get to ask everything he wanted.”

“Like what’s your favourite position,” Sherlock sniggered under his breath.

“What was that?” John demanded.

“Nothing,” the detective replied, his face a mask of innocence.

“Right, so where is this next ‘chat’ taking place?” Mark asked.

“The details aren’t set in stone yet,” the doctor replied.

“That is a lie, John,” Mycroft told him with a pointed look. 

“No it’s not!”

“Please, do not embarrass yourself by trying to get an untruth past me. You are dissembling.”

He groaned. “Bloody Holmeses. Fine, we’ve got that pub a few streets away with the nice beer garden in mind.”

“That sounds like a date to me,” Mark said with a smirk.

“Definitely a date,” Sherlock repeated.

John glared at his flatmate, and took a gulp of the coffee Mycroft had handed him. “I hate you all,” he muttered.

Mycroft sat down opposite him. “Apologies, John - we shouldn’t be making fun of you. I for one am happy that you are branching out into a wider dating pool.” He kept quiet on the fact that he’d have preferred for that pool to  _ not _ be filled with genetic material that bore an eerie resemblance to his lover.

The blonde sighed, but seemed to give up arguing about the assignation’s definition. “Thank you, Mycroft. I’m not going to count my chickens before they hatch, though, alright?” He cut eyes across to the sitting room at Sherlock. “I did that once before and look how badly that turned out.”

“Very prudent,” he agreed.

Mark had popped a pancake onto Rosie’s favourite  _ Dora the Explorer _ plate to cool, and was stacking up the others onto a single plate so the stack would keep them warm for the adults. John folded the paper and placed it aside, and then rose to take his daughter into the bathroom to wash her hands in time for breakfast. Sherlock came into the kitchen and handed Mycroft his own molecule. He examined it, and chuckled as he recognised it. “Oxytocin. How apt, Sherlock.” He gave him a quick kiss and then offered his own gift - a cup of coffee.

By the time they had gathered condiments and laid out plates. Mark had finished cooking all the pancakes and they were all soon sat at the table; Rosie’s high chair tucked in next to John.

“These look delicious - thank you, Mark,” Mycroft told him with a smile.

“My pleasure. I figured I had to earn my keep while I hang out with you all.” 

“I thought you earned your keep by standing around looking pretty?” Sherlock teased as he added jam to one of his pancakes.

Mark battered his eyelashes at him. “You get that for free, Sher.”

“Does that mean I can’t ask for a refund?”

“Since there’s a child present, my response to that is ‘read between the lines’.” He held up a hand with his three middle fingers extended.

“What do you have planned today?” Mycroft asked his brother with a grin, as the detective blew the agent a kiss.

“John has a shift at the clinic this morning so I’m watching Rosie, and then this afternoon I have an appointment with a client - though it doesn’t sound promising. I doubt it’ll take me long to solve for her.”

He nodded and looked to Mark. “Can you arrange for the full complement of men outside to remain here for the day? I’m sure you and I will be safe enough until we reach the office, so there’s no need to split them.”

“Of course.”

They spoke of other things then while they finished breakfast, and then it was time to leave for the office. Mycroft retreated to the bedroom to collect his belongings, and Sherlock followed him, pulling him close for a thorough snog to see him through the day. Mycroft wrapped his arms around him after they’d broken the kiss, burying his face in Sherlock’s neck, just relishing the comfort the position offered. “Love you,” he whispered.

“Love you, too. Be safe today,” Sherlock implored.

“I will. I have a reason to come home now.”

His brother walked him to the door of the flat, where Mycroft picked Rosie up and gave her a cuddle goodbye, and then gave Sherlock one last peck on the cheek. “Have a good day,” he told them, and then he and Mark were leaving. As he stepped into the car, he took one last look back up at the flat, marvelling once more at how much he was enjoying this domesticity. The door closed, and he took a breath, pulling his armour around him as he transformed into The Iceman.

Time to go to work.


	46. Chapter 46

As expected, the case his client brought to him was disappointing. He held out his phone, showing the ebay listing of the antiques she was missing, clearly displaying the user name. “If I were you, Mrs Scatterman, I would look to your husband, as I assume your sons are too young to create the username  _ The Scatman _ . Of course, I wouldn’t be  _ too _ harsh on him - those figurines are absolutely atrocious, and I commend him for attempting to glean profit from them instead of throwing them in the bin where they belong. Just because something is an antique, doesn’t make it  _ tasteful _ .”

The woman had left, furious, though whether at the detective for his interior design critique, or her husband for selling the figurines, Sherlock didn't care enough about to deduce. John had been putting Rosie down for a nap when the client arrived, and looked surprised as he came back down the stairs to see the back of her as she huffed her way out of 221B. “Not happy with the solution?” he asked, sitting himself down in his armchair.

Sherlock picked up his violin and plucked absently at the strings. “No, not particularly.” His need for cases had reduced somewhat now that he had Mycroft to help quieten his mind, but he still liked to be occupied during the day. He wondered if Anthea would share with him any intelligence they had on Elliott, so he could figure out what hole the man had slithered into after his injuries. He would have to ask her, but he didn't particularly want his brother to know he was looking into it. Mycroft would say it was too dangerous now that Elliott was most likely after the detective as well.

John’s phone pinged with a text message and he pulled it out to read it. He shook his head and frowned, then put his phone away without replying. “Something wrong?” Sherlock asked, wondering if his fledgling romance with Jonathon was already on the rocks.

His flatmate shrugged. “I asked Greg if he wanted to watch the game on Friday night, and he’s said no.”

“And? It’s Friday night, John. Perhaps he has a date? Or maybe he’ll want to just head home and relax after his week at work.”

“But watching footy  _ is _ relaxing! And it was never an issue when we used to have regular pub nights with the three of us. Besides, this isn’t the first time he’s knocked me back.”

Sherlock knew exactly when Lestrade had stopped hanging out with John, but it seemed his blogger had only recently caught onto it, as the DI did make appearances when Sherlock was present. The regular Friday pub catchup had come to an end when Sherlock’s relationship with Mycroft had commenced, but on and off when his brother was working late he would find himself out with his flatmate and Lestrade. Out of respect for the younger man, Lestrade was polite to John, and treated him cordially, however he had made it clear to Sherlock that any friendship he felt towards the doctor had disintegrated the moment he found out the violence towards him wasn’t a once off. John couldn’t understand why the silver haired inspector had gone cold on their friendship, and neither Lestrade nor Sherlock felt like explaining it. “Perhaps you’re not his type,” Sherlock said, hoping to distract him. “He seems to prefer brunettes.”

John looked at him in exasperation, and shook his head. “Don’t give up your day job, Sherlock. You’d never make it as a comedian.”

“I supposed I shall just have to save up all my jokes for you then. Aren’t you lucky?”

The man groaned, and stood, heading for the kitchen. “That dire threat calls for tea. Want some?”

“I’m British, John - the day I say no to tea is the day I’ll have a toe tag on my feet.”

“A simple yes would have sufficed.”

“And lower my standards to those of a quivering caveman? I think not,”

“Remind me again why I put up with you?”

It was on the tip of his tongue to retort  _ because Eurus told you to _ , but he managed to hold his tongue. “Because Rosie would be devastated if she lost her Sher Sher,” he said instead. 

“Ah yes, that’s right. It’s because I love my daughter.”

“You have to have  _ one _ redeeming quality.”

“One of these days, you’re going to turn up dead and they’ll discover that I’ve been lacing your tea with arsenic,” the doctor warned.

“And I’d be very disappointed in you, John,” Sherlock told him, in all seriousness. “Between your medical training, working with Lestrade for so long, and being exposed to my genius, if you can’t cover up a murder by now, there is absolutely no hope for you.”

John plonked the tea down on the table with a little more force than was strictly necessary, but he had a faint smile on his face when he replied, “I can live with you being disappointed in me, since you’d be dead and all.”

“I shall make sure I come back and haunt you specially.”

“You’d be a rubbish ghost, Sherlock. You’d get lost in your mind palace for days and I’d only know you were there because I’d go to sit on the couch and find myself in a cold patch of air.”

“Perhaps, but my voice has often been described as being a ‘rumbly baritone’ - I think that would make for wonderful moaning as I wander the hallways.”

“Hallways? You mean the five feet from your bedroom door to the living room?”

“I may need to branch out and haunt the stairs as well.”

“I’ve not heard of ghosts haunting stairs before.”

He huffed dramatically. “Yes, well, considering I don’t do things by the book while I’m alive, it stands to reason I’d do things my own way whilst dead as well.”

John groaned. “Oh fuck, instead of the clanking of chains, I’d be kept awake all night by the screeching of violin strings, and the odd muffled sound of an explosion in the kitchen.”

“Exactly!”

“So I guess my life wouldn’t really change all that much, so that’s something at least.” John smirked at him. “Except you wouldn’t be able to have a temper tantrum and throw out my good jumper when I empty the fridge of your experiments by accident.”

“I’d been cultivating those mould samples for three weeks!”

“Yes, but you put them in the cheese compartment. Something that looks like it used to be Camembert back in 1996 belongs in the bin.”

“You could have checked with me first!”

“I did, and you ignored me. I even texted you, even though you were in the next room!”

“I can’t help it that I’m so used to your imbecilic messages that I find it a better use of my time to ignore them.”

“And this is why your experiments get thrown out, Sherlock - because you’re a prat.”

“I can live with that.”

“But your mould specimens can’t.”

His lips pressed into a thin line as they faced each other down over their teacups. “As lovely as this conversation has been, I really must head over to Mycroft’s now.”

John shook his head, but gave him a fond smile. “Say hello to your brother from me, and tell him I wish him luck. He’ll need it with the mood you’re in.”

“I shall try and remember to pass on your message but I cannot guarantee  _ when _ . It might be when I’m lubing him up.”

“ _ No! _ God, no, I do  _ not _ need that visual! Just tell him when he gets home.”

“If you wish for me to be your messenger, John, you do not get to dictate how or when I deliver said message.”

The blonde glared at him and then shook his head. “You know what? Forget I said anything. I don’t need any greeting passed onto Mycroft. Have a good night, Sherlock.”

The detective grinned, and pocketed his phone, then gave his flatmate a wink and was gone.

 


	47. Chapter 47

The next two weeks were busy ones for Mycroft. Two small attacks in Europe had been classified as terrorist attacks, and although the nature of them didn’t facilitate the raising of the terror alert, he was kept busy nonetheless with meetings and strategy sessions, and analysing the increased chatter on the wire. He ended up in the bad books with both his brother and John when one evening he had to call Jonathon in for some advice, interrupting a date with the ex-army doctor. Sherlock had been grumpy that his doppelganger had gotten to see Mycroft, when he himself hadn’t in almost three days, and John was pissed because things had been starting to heat up with the professor. Mycroft had been sleeping at the office and it was another two days before things had quietened down enough for him to take some time off, so at least by then they’d both have had time to calm down. He just hoped that Sherlock would have missed his brother so much that he’s waste no time in being grumpy.

Mycroft went straight to Baker Street when he left the office, finding everyone in bed. He snuck into Sherlock’s room and slid under the covers, and found himself suddenly with an armful of limbs and curls. “ _Mycroft_ ,” Sherlock sighed, going boneless in the embrace.

“Hello, love,” he greeted him, inhaling the glorious scent of his hair.

“I wasn’t sure when I’d get to see you next.” His deep voice was heavy with sleep and Mycroft suppressed a grin at how adorable it was.

“Neither was I, but things seem to have calmed down at the moment so I was able to get away.”

“Do you need me to make up the couch for Mark? Or did you find the blankets okay?”

He cleared his throat, preparing for the outburst that would inevitably come after he shared his news. “Actually, he’s not here. The security team have been stood down.”

“ _What?_ Why the hell would you do that? Elliott is still out there!” He was fully awake now.

“Yes, Sherlock, I know,” Mycroft told him, keeping his voice calm. “I was called into a meeting tonight before I left with the PM, Lady Smallwood and Sir Edwin, and since there have been no signs of Elliott, they have decided that they can’t justify the expense anymore.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Sherlock almost snarled. “If it was the PM in danger, they wouldn’t let up on security until Elliott was caught or killed!”

“Yes, brother dear, but I am not the PM; I’m not even an elected official. They have provided security as deemed fit, but without proof of a viable threat, they cannot continue to utilise resources in such a manner. Rest assured, if there is even a hint of him on the radar, they will reinstate it.”

Sherlock rolled over onto his back and huffed out a breath. In a petulant voice he said, “Yes, but it’s still not good enough. After all you’ve done for them! And what happens if they don’t see him coming? What happens if he attacks while you’re here and Rosie gets hurt?”

Mycroft closed his eyes in the dark, trying to chase away visions of that possibility. “I can hire private security to watch over her here,” he offered.

“That’s not the point! They should be looking after you!”

“Sherlock, they have made their decision, and as much as neither of us like it, we have to accept it. If you are genuinely concerned for Rosamund’s safety, I can just not stay here until this is over.”

“Mark said it was best to change up where you stay. Just because he’d been stood down, that doesn’t make his advice invalid.”

He had to concede that point. “True. I shall talk with John and if he feels security is required, I will happily engage the services of a private firm.”

“Fine. But what about you? How are you holding up?”

“I’m fine, honestly,” he assured him.

“I’m guessing Mark wasn’t impressed with the new orders.”

“Some choice words were muttered,” he confirmed.

“Where will he be posted now? Here in town still?”

“I believe so, but it all depends on intel we get - you know it can change in an instant.”

“If he’s still in London on the weekend, I’d like to have him around for dinner if that’s okay?”

A year ago such words would never have passed Sherlock’s lips. At times, Mycroft felt like pinching himself at how much more sociable his brother had become. It was truly a wonderful thing to observe. “I have no qualms about that, as long as he doesn’t have plans.”

“Excellent. I might have to get you to film his reaction though!”

Redacting his previous thought at the note of conniving glee in his brother’s voice, the older man bravely asked, “What exactly would he be reacting to?”

Sherlock was pressed close against him, and Mycroft could feel his grin against his throat. “I found something in a charity shop today that I want to give him.”

“What on earth were you doing in a charity shop? I thought you abhorred such places?”

“I saw this in the shop window, otherwise I wouldn’t be caught dead in such a place. Luckily I’m fully vaccinated.”

“You’re an utter snob, brother mine.”

He scoffed. “Don’t pretend you’d ever step foot in one.”

“I never denied being a snob,” he said airily. “Now, are you going to tell me what you purchased for the man who has been more than accommodating recently and has gone above and beyond for _both_ of us? I won’t appreciate you subjecting him to a cruel joke.”

Sherlock went very still in his arms. “Do you really believe me capable of such a thing?” There was a definite note of hurt in his voice.

“Not on purpose, but there are times when you don’t quite realise you’ve crossed a line, love.”

“I thought I’d been getting better,” he said petulantly.

“You have, Sherlock, you really have. It’s just some social cues still seem to evade you. But telling me what you have planned is a step in the right direction - I can at least provide some input on whether or not I believe our friend will take offense.”

“If you insist.” He rolled away from him and soon Mycroft was blinking against the sudden light from the lamp. His brother stood up gracefully from the bed and crossed to the wardrobe, searching inside for the gift. Mycroft was so busy looking at how bending over at such an angle caused his pyjama bottoms to cling to his lush arse, that he missed the small sound of triumph when Sherlock found what he was looking for. The younger man straightened up and smirked as he saw the look of lust that was evident on Mycroft’s face. “I’ll be quick, shall I, so you can ravage me?”

He tried to sound affronted. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, brother mine.”

“Perhaps because your brain power is split between following this conversation and ogling me.”

“I am _not_ ogling you,” he protested, yanking his eyes up from where they had settled on the dip above his hipbones.

He rumbled out a chuckle and crossed back to the bed. “Yes, you were, but I don’t mind at all.” He leant over and pecked him on the cheek and then held out the gift for Mark. Mycroft had to admit that he hadn’t been as observant as he normally was as the gift wasn’t exactly small. He took the instrument in his hands and turned it over, examining it. “It’s in lovely condition for something from a charity shop,” he noted as he eyed the lute. “And it looks old. I’d have expected it to be from an antique shop.”

“Yes, well, apparently every now and then you run across gems like this at such places. Perhaps I’ll have to peruse them more often.”

He strummed on the strings absently. “And Mark can play?”

“Oh yes, he plays drums, guitar, and the lute. He doesn’t advertise the latter.” He took the instrument from him and leaned it carefully up against the wall, then climbed back into bed after turning off the lamp. “I was hoping that perhaps we could spend some time in your music room. You and I haven’t played together since you went to university, and as much as I enjoy my duets with Eurus, it would be nice to see what we can manage between us with a violin, piano, and lute.”

Mycroft snorted out an undignified laugh. “You want to have a jam session.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Sherlock said, poking him in the side.

“I’m not - that’s exactly what you’ve described. But I’m very enthusiastic about it. I think it will be fun.”

“Really?” It was hesitant, almost shy.

Mycroft pulled him close in the dark and kissed him softly. “Really. Now, I can’t see you anymore to ogle you, but perhaps I could use my hands to map out every inch of you?”

“I thought you said you _weren’t_ ogling me?”

“I lied. I _always_ ogle you, because you’re the most ravishing man I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

“I suppose I would be amenable to a groping or two.”

Mycroft grinned and kissed him again. “Wonderful.” And then he rolled Sherlock onto his back and began his exploration.


	48. Chapter 48

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tag update for this chapter.

Both Mark and Mycroft had to work on Saturday, but they finished in time for Sherlock’s dinner to go ahead. Mycroft arrived back at his house first, rubbing at his neck from where he’d been bent over old maps of the underground. Chatter they’d intercepted had hinted at an attack on the tube, but by the time he’d finished evaluating everything, it was clear it was just that - chatter. There were no viable threats, and so he had left the office breathing a little easier.

Sherlock met him in the hallway and kissed him softly, then led him upstairs and into the bathroom. He had a bath drawn already and there was the tang of citrus in the air coming from a candle that was burning softly on the vanity.

“Oh, Sherlock,” he said as his eyes widened. “This is so thoughtful of you.”

“I figured you’d need to relax after working so hard.”

He kissed him again, more forcefully this time. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

His brother left him to soak and Mycroft slipped under the warm water, a contented sigh escaping his lips as he did so. He leaned his head back against the foam bath pillow that was attached via a suction cap to the edge of the tub and closed his eyes, allowing the tension to drain from him. It was utterly blissful and he felt himself growing more and more relaxed.

He must have drifted off as he was startled awake by a hand gently shaking his shoulder. Uncomfortably cold water splashed around him as he pulled himself into a sitting position, his eyes darting around till they settled on his brother. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to give you a fright,” Sherlock apologised. “I thought you’d want to get out before you got too cold, or pruned yourself to death.”

He lifted his leg a little so his foot poked out of the water and grimaced at the very wrinkled skin. “I think it’s a close call,” he muttered.

Sherlock held open a towel as Mycroft clambered out of the tub, and then wrapped it around him once he was standing on the mat. He rubbed at his arms for a moment but then let go so he could dry himself - it sounded terribly romantic in theory to allow someone to dry you, but in reality it was awkward and they never  _ quite _ got all the little nooks and crannies. His brother took a seat on the closed toilet lid as Mycroft rubbed himself dry. “I’ve ordered in a takeaway from Angelo’s for dinner,” he told him. “I was going to try and cook but I figured food poisoning wouldn’t be something any of us need right now.”

“You’re not that bad of a cook,” Mycroft told him with a fond roll of his eyes. “You’ve not managed to poison me so far.”

“So far,” he agreed ominously. “I’m not going to take that chance tonight.”

“Yes well, I won’t complain too loudly.” He had grown very fond of the food Angelo made, even if he did need to run an extra hour or two on the treadmill to work it off. “What time will our guest arrive?” he asked as he hung up the towel and applied deodorant.

“He’s leaving home soon so maybe half an hour.”

Mycroft nodded and then went into the bedroom to get dressed. Sherlock left him to it and by the time he got downstairs, he found his brother had laid out a cheese platter and had opened a bottle of wine. He raised an eyebrow but refrained from commenting, worried he’d shame Sherlock into never going to such efforts again. He helped himself to a cracker with cheese and sank onto the couch. His brother joined him and he shuffled over until he was tucked into his side, leaning his head against his shoulder. 

“Other than potential terrorists, how are you?” Sherlock asked, running a hand through Mycroft’s hair.

He sighed at the feeling of strong fingers against his scalp and bit back a yawn. “I’m fine, love. Just tired.” He knew the younger man was worried about him and to be honest, he couldn’t blame him. He’d always been the stronger one of the two of them; the one who remained calm and made the hard decisions; the Iceman who could keep his emotions from getting in the way of a job. It must have been difficult for Sherlock to see the cracks in the armour that this entire ordeal with Elliott had revealed. He thought he had put it behind him, had gotten over the assault, but the way he’d reacted when he’d come face to face with his attacker at The Cross Keys was evidence that he hadn’t. He’d reverted in that moment to the emotional state he’d been in directly after the incident and he’d been unable to function. Now that the security team had been pulled back, there was even less standing between him and Elliott than ever before. The man had gone to ground, his previous training put to use in evading the very people he had worked for. 

He was pulled from his reverie by the sound of the doorbell and Sherlock rose to his feet to answer it. He returned shortly, followed by a smiling Mark and Mycroft stood to greet him. He expected a handshake but was pulled into a hug instead, and after a moment’s hesitation, he returned it firmly. “It’s good to see you, Mark.”

“Likewise. How are you?”

“I’m well. And you?”

“Still furious about them pulling your detail, but otherwise fine. They had me analysing data at the office but after I’d had a go at my superiors a few too many times about how I was needed elsewhere, they got sick of me and sent me out.”

He shook his head. “Don’t make trouble for yourself on my behalf,” Mycroft chided.

Mark grinned. “But I’m so good at it!”

“Yes, yes, this is all very good, but if we could stop the banal chit chat and get to the reason I asked you over,” Sherlock said primly.

The young MI5 agent waggled his eyebrows. “Is it Mr Spurty’s lucky night?”

“Has Mr Spurty had a sudden and inexplicable change of sexual orientation?”

“Erm...no.”

“Then he won’t be too disappointed because he wouldn’t get any from us anyway.”

“Awww,” Mark whined, then winked at Mycroft.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and then grabbed Mark’s arm. “Come with me.”

“Why?”

“Stop asking asine questions - they do nothing but make you sound idiotic and incompetent.”

“You really know how to make a man feel loved, Sher.”

Mycroft trailed along after them as they headed for the music room. He felt a pool of happiness well within him as he watched the two men banter with each other. He’d worried for most of his life about Sherlock’s ability to connect with others, but he seemed to be doing pretty well on that front now. He not only had John and now Mark, but he was also connecting more and more with their sister each time he visited. Others may not notice the overt changes, but Mycroft could see how happy it made his brother. He could still be snide and sarcastic, but there was a warmth underneath the snarky comments that told the real story.

They reached the music room and Mark looked around. “I’ve poked my head in here a few times, but never came in to explore.” He trailed a hand over the baby grand. “I remember Sher telling me you played, Mycroft. I’d had you pegged as a cello man myself.”

“Mmm, most people do,” Mycroft agreed, “Though I’ve never understood why.”

“I guess because Sher plays the violin. They seem to go hand in hand.”

“Sherlock was fond of telling everyone when we were younger that the reason I chose piano was because it had a seat so I could sit my fat arse down to play.” He looked over to see Sherlock blushing a little, and realised he was regretting ever saying such hurtful things. “I suppose cello would have sufficed for that purpose as well.” He gave a rueful little smile. “To be fair, I was a chubby youth, and not inclined to exercise. Sherlock would wander all over the place whilst he played, but I much preferred the sedentary instrument.” He crossed to where his brother stood and wrapped an arm around his waist, hoping he would understand that Mycroft wasn’t upset over the jibes he’d doled out as a child to his older brother. “Are you going to give Mark his gift?” he prompted.

“Gift?” Mark asked, suddenly wary.

Mycroft laughed at the look of offense on his brother’s face at their friend’s trepidation. “That was much my reaction when he told me,” Mycroft told him. “But rest assured, it’s actually very sweet.”

“Sweet?” came the double response, like an echo. Sherlock’s tone was offended, and Mark’s was curious.

The older man sighed. “Just give it to him, Sherlock.”

His brother suddenly grew shy and he crossed to the small cupboard, pulling out the lute. He couldn’t seem to look Mark in the eye as he handed it over. “I saw it and thought of you,” he explained to the floor.

Mark took the instrument, his eyes wide. “Oh, Sher, she’s beautiful,” he said reverently. “I can’t believe you remembered.”

“I have an excellent memory, Mark, which you clearly do not share as you seemed to forget that point.”

“Yes, well, not all of us have super memory powers.”

“Powers that can be learned if only you applied yourself.”

Mycroft heard his phone ring from where he’d left it in the living room and he excused himself to answer it, leaving the two men to their exchange of affectionate bickering. “Mycroft Holmes,” he said as he answered the call.

The voice on the end of the line spoke and suddenly his brain stopped working. He must have replied; his mouth taking matters into its own hands, as information was exchanged, but he didn’t recall what he had said. The caller finished speaking and hung up, and Mycroft made his way slowly back to the music room. When he arrived, the two men were in the middle of a lively debate over which was the better stringed instrument - violin or lute, but Sherlock stopped mid-tirade when he saw his face.

“Mycie? What’s wrong?” he asked, on instant alert.

He looked over and met his brother’s eyes, and felt a small part of his inner light fade away. “Oh, Sherlock, I’m so sorry. Mummy had a heart attack today.” He felt a little faint and sank onto the piano seat. “She’s gone, Sherlock. Mummy’s dead.”


	49. Chapter 49

Sherlock couldn’t sleep. He lay with his eyes open in the dark, his brother restless, but mercifully asleep, in his arms. His mind was a chaotic whirl of memories, regrets, and the stunned disbelief that his life could have changed so suddenly a mere few hours ago.

He’d known as soon as Mycie had walked in the room that there was something wrong, but if he’d been given five guesses, none of them would have been the death of their mother. She was one of the foundation stones of his life; a solid, dependable rock that he rarely thought about in his waking hours but in his deep subconscious he knew she would always be there and that brought him comfort and a sense of balance. She was his mother and she was supposed to be invincible, but now she was gone.

His entire life, his brother had always been nagging him to see more of their parents, or to do this or not do that so as not to upset them, but he’d rarely listened. As soon as he’d gone off to university, he hadn’t looked back and had done what he wanted or what felt good, damned what his parents thought. He knew his addiction had hurt them deeply, but at the time he was too wrapped up in his own head to give a damn about that. Once he’d gotten clean he never seemed to get around to apologising - his anger at Mycroft for forcing him into rehab kept him away from most family gatherings, and when he did attend, Mummy was just so happy to see him that he’d not wanted to upset her by bringing up such horrible memories. 

The distance didn’t help either, but their parents would never move to London, and both boys would never leave. Sherlock’s everyday life could be so unpredictable and busy that it was rare that thoughts of his parents crossed his mind; generally only when he and Mycroft were bickering and the ‘You’ll upset Mummy’ card was played. Otherwise his life here seemed to be so totally removed and separate that it was only when he or they were visiting that they occupied his mind. It wasn’t that he didn't love them, or care about them, but they would always be there but the arsonist who had been setting fires all over town without leaving a trace of evidence might not be.

But of course, that thinking had been flawed, hadn’t it? An almost childish belief that no matter what happened, he could count on being dragged to the occasional musical theatre production whenever he lost a bet with his brother. Because now Mummy was gone, and he would never see her again. Really, how hard would it have been for him to call more often? Or to visit an extra day at Christmas? It would have made her so happy, but he hadn’t bothered because he was so adamant that the work was important and he didn't have time. But he had had the time, but now she was the one that didn’t. Mummy was dead and he would never be able to make amends for his terrible behaviour over the years. 

Mycroft whimpered in his sleep and Sherlock tightened his arms around him, pressing a kiss to his forehead. It seemed to settle him somewhat and he instinctively nuzzled into Sherlock’s chest. After his initial shock at the news, Mycroft had seemed to rally, making phone calls and arrangements. An old family friend, Sophia, was the one who had called to advise him of the news, and he had called her back to ask the questions his brain hadn’t allowed him to ask when it had shut down at the news. Sherlock had sat beside him, feeling numb, listening to the one side of the conversation that he could hear, but not even attempting to deduce the responses on the other end of the line. This was about how Mummy had died and she deserved more than casual deductions. 

Mark had made them cups of tea, and had forced them to eat a few bites of dinner once it had been delivered. He’d given them both hugs and then, looking torn, had decided to go. He told them that they probably needed time alone together to process the news but he was just a phone call away if they needed anything. The door closed behind him, and the two brothers sat side by side on the couch, staring into nothingness. 

Eventually, Mycroft cleared his throat and began to speak. “Father has been given a sedative so he can sleep. Sophia says that he’ll be out for about twelve hours so there’s no point in us heading there tonight. She and Graham are staying there with him so he won’t be alone. I’ll make arrangements for us to drive down tomorrow.”

Sherlock nodded, but couldn’t think of anything to say to that as it made sense. He felt Mycroft’s fingers slip into his hand and he curled his digits around his brother’s. 

“I’ll also make arrangements for the funeral,” the older man continued. “I don’t think Father will be up for doing that.”

Sherlock had gone to speak, but he couldn’t remember now what he’d been going to say. He’d opened his mouth and then a wail had escaped instead and then he was crying, hot tears running down his cheeks as it hit him that he’d never see his mother again. Mycroft had pulled him into his arms and he felt the trembling of his brother’s body that told him he too was crying. They had remained on the couch for about an hour, holding each other during the initial stages of their grief, not speaking, just allowing the raw emotion to rule them both. 

Mycroft made several more calls and then he led them up to bed since they were both exhausted, but of course, sleep alluded the younger brother. Sherlock thought back to when he and Mycroft had been standing in the morgue, watching a family break down as they identified their daughter. He’d asked if there was perhaps something wrong with them and his brother had replied that all lives end, that caring wasn’t an advantage. How clever they’d thought themselves to be, superior to the masses that allowed emotion to rule them. But they weren’t superior at all, in fact, they were actually just slower on the uptake. Their romantic relationship had cemented the fact that they both could indeed do sentiment, they they could care, and now they were learning that just like regular folk, it  _ fucking hurt _ when a loved one died. It tore you open, and gutted your soul, and you were suddenly left exposed and vulnerable to the universe. 

The Holmes brothers: the dumbest geniuses on the planet.

He reached out and thumbed at his phone, checking the time. He huffed out a sigh as he saw he had to be up in two hours so they could get on the road to avoid the traffic. He was suddenly reminded of the last words he’d ever said to his mother in person. ‘ _ You’d think the motorway was some kind of demolition derby, the way you worry’ _ . At the time he had felt a little exasperated with the way she had fussed, but he would give anything to have her fret over their safety once more. Yet another thing that would never occur again. She’d never kiss them goodbye, never cook them a Christmas dinner, never get indignant over him getting shot. He’d never see her again.

He was crying again, his grief rising up to overwhelm him, and of course the wracking sobs that coursed through his body woke his brother. Mycroft shuffled about, reversing their positions so it was his arms around his younger brother and gently rocked Sherlock as he cried. They didn't speak, and Mycroft didn't cry, he just held his little brother and made soft, murmuring sounds of comfort. Exhaustion settled over the younger man like a blanket as his sobs began to subside, and he didn't fight it as his eyes grew heavy. He allowed himself to drift off to oblivion, to a place where his mother was still alive, and his heart was still in one piece.


	50. Chapter 50

They were later leaving London than Mycroft had wanted, but he’d had to take a phone call from the PM before he left. He’d already spent half an hour on the phone to Anthea to reschedule his meetings, and to put in place contingency plans, and had sighed audibly when his phone display flashed up with the PM’s name. “Mycroft Holmes,” he’d answered, managing to keep the grief from his voice. He just hoped he wasn’t being called with news of another attack, since there would be no way he’d be able to leave if that was the case. As it was, he was pushing the limits of his service. The death of a parent was a horrible and upsetting thing, but the safety of the country took precedence over personal matters.

“Mycroft,” The PM greeted him with a sombre voice. “I’m just phoning to offer my condolences,” he said. “Please, if there is anything I can do for you or your family, just say the word.”

Feeling uncharacteristically touched by the kind words, Mycroft swallowed around the lump in his throat. “I appreciate that, sir. I’d like to assure you that if a situation arises, I’ll return as promptly as possible.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” the PM told him, even though they both knew this was a lie disguised as comfort and concern. If another attack occurred - especially on British soil, Mycroft would feel it was his duty to return, and the PM would expect him to. “I’ll call you if we’re in dire need, but otherwise you take as much time as you need. I understand how upsetting the loss of a parent can be -” He paused for a moment and Mycroft recalled his father had died from a long battle with cancer during his campaigning. “- Just spend time with your family, Mycroft. You don’t realise how much they mean to you until they’re gone.”

“I’m beginning to understand that all too clearly,” he admitted.

“Yes, well, just cherish the time you have with those that are left.”

“I will.” There was a slightly awkward pause, as both men navigated the uncharted waters of personal conversation. 

The PM cleared his throat. “Well, I’m sure you need to go. Just please, call me if you need anything. You’ve been a great help to me during my time in office, and even though I’ll deny it if ever asked, there probably would have been anarchy if it wasn’t for your guidance at the beginning. I owe you a few favours in return.”

“I appreciate that, sir. I’ll be in touch.”

They both ended the call and Mycroft chose not to dwell on work, but to concentrate on his brother. Sherlock looked exhausted, and had dark circles under his eyes, much like Mummy had had the last time he’d seen her. Had it been a sign of her failing health? Or had it just been the effects of the busy weekend? He should have said something, at least asked Father to keep a close eye on her, but he hadn’t, and he would always regret that. He pulled his brother in for a hug, holding him tightly for a few moments, and then pressed a kiss to his forehead. “We should head off,” he murmured.

Nodding once in agreement, Sherlock picked up the bag he had packed and headed for the door. Anthea had wanted to arrange a car for them, not wanting her boss to have to drive, but Mycroft had politely declined. As discreet and trustworthy as his drivers were, he wanted to keep his grief private. His brother climbed into the passenger seat, and soon Mycroft was driving them out of London. 

They were both quiet for a long time, both lost in their own heads, until Sherlock suddenly broke the silence. “Remember the time I made a special bath oil for Mummy for Mother’s Day?”

Mycroft chuckled at the memory. “How could I forget? You asked Father if he’d be a test subject since you’d used some compounds you weren’t sure of, and he declined.”

“So I waited for you to have a bath and snuck some in so I could test it before I gave it to her.”

“I have never been so itchy before in my life,” Mycroft drawled.

“And you were a very faint shade of purple if I recall.”

“I was ready to kill you. You hid in your room for two days, and were late down to the morning tea we were having for Mother’s Day.”

“To be fair, I was confident you wouldn’t exact revenge on me in front of Mummy.”

“How wrong you were.”

“She was mortified when you emptied the entire bowl of clotted cream over my head.”

“Only because there was none left for the scones.”

“And because after I poured jam in your hair you then chased me around the house and we left a trail of strawberries and cream along the carpets.”

Bittersweet laughter filled the car as they rehashed their childhood memories. “What about the time you were dissecting that rabbit you found that had been hit by a car,” Mycroft reminisced. “You were doing it in the kitchen because it had the sharpest knives, but you got distracted halfway through and went to check one of your books. Mummy came in and thought Father had been helping prepare dinner so she finished it.”

Sherlock grinned. “I waited until after dinner to inform you that you’d eaten roadkill pie for dinner.”

“But of course Mummy overheard you and then she spent the next half an hour vomiting up every morsel.”

“I didn’t mean for her to hear!”

“But she did. You should have kept your mouth shut.”

“But then I wouldn’t have had the satisfaction of making you turn green around the gills.”

“I suppose everyone has their priorities.”

There was a pause and then Sherlock added, “It was a surprisingly good pie…”

They burst out laughing again, both feeling a little bit lighter than before. It didn't last long though, and soon Mycroft was sighing. “I wonder how Father is holding up?”

Sherlock shrugged, and looked out the window, uncomfortable and melancholy all of a sudden. 

“What is it?” Mycroft asked his brother.

“If I tell you, you’ll get mad at me.”

“Whatever for?” he asked, bewildered.

“Because I’m going down the ‘what if path and I know how that annoys you.”

“Only because it causes you to borrow trouble and get worked up over things that will probably never happen.”

“But statistically this  _ will _ happen.”

“What will happen?”

Sherlock slumped down in the seat. “Did it ever strike you just how much in love our parents were, even after all this time?”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied cautiously, wondering if this was a ploy to change the subject.

“I used to look at them, you know, and wonder how they hadn’t grown sick of the other. How could you still love someone so much after so many years? Surely the bad habits, and annoying traits would be too much after so long? But that never seemed to matter. They were so happy together.”

“Yes, they were. I always hoped I’d find someone whom I could love like they loved each other,” Mycroft admitted. “I never thought I’d have it, but in the very back of my mind I secretly hoped.”

“Yes, well I never expected to find anyone like that either,” Sherlock said, then gave him a meaningful look. “But I did. And it terrifies me that we’re going to grow old together, Mycie, and I’ll love you more and more everyday, until my heart is full to bursting, but then one day, one of us will be gone. And the other will be left alone, just like Father is now.”

Mycroft gave his brother a sad smile. “And because I’m older than you, statistically it’s likely that it will be  _ me _ to die, and it will be you left alone.”

Sherlock nodded but didn’t reply, just looked away.

Mycroft sighed. “It scares me too, when I stop and think about it. Hopefully, that’s a very long way off and neither of us will have to deal with it soon. Try not to think about it, love.”

The younger man reached up and wiped away a solitary tear. “That will be hard to do, Mycie. Everytime I see Father, I’ll be seeing my own future; my own broken heart as I look to find my love, only to remember they are gone.”

His brother seemed to be falling into a bleak depression, and he didn't know how to pull him from it. He rested a comforting hand on his knee and gave a squeeze. “Perhaps you can take solace in the fact that the chances of one of your mad experiments going wrong and turning lethal is rather high, so in reality, it will most likely be  _ me _ who is mourning you.”

Almost against his will, Sherlock’s lips quirked into a small smile. “Just remember, brother mine, that I am leaving my body to science, so please do not have me cremated.”

“Will they still want it if it’s been blown into smithereens?”

“Whole, or in mangled clumps, my body will be of utmost importance to science.”

“I shall keep that in mind.”

“Please do. Science will thank you.”

 


	51. Chapter 51

Sherlock sat at the kitchen table in his parent’s house and tried not to feel so utterly useless. His father was absolutely heartbroken and since they had arrived, had said less than ten words to them. All he did was sit at the table, staring into nothingness, lost in his grief. Mycroft had pushed his own grief aside and had assumed control of the situation, handling everything so his father could do what he needed to do to cope with the sudden loss of his wife. Sherlock had watched in awe as his brother worked, but couldn’t help but lament the inefficacious feeling that welled up inside him. Mycroft had everything in hand, and Sherlock didn’t know what he should or could do, so he assigned himself the task of keeping his father company. He sat with him in silence at the table, making him the odd cup of tea to replace the one that had gone cold and untouched at his hand.

The house was not quiet though, as a steady stream of visitors poured through, bringing with them casseroles and comfort. Sherlock tried not to flinch each time he was pulled into a hug by Mrs So and So from down the road, and he dutifully thanked them for their condolences even though all he wanted to do though was to yell and scream at them to go away. They seemed to understand on some instinctual level that prolonged company was not desired, and would mostly leave shortly afterwards after extracting a promise from Mycroft that he phone if they needed anything.

Sherlock couldn’t help but complain a little to his brother during a lull in between knocks at the door. “They just don’t stop coming,” he moaned as they filled the kettle. “How many casseroles do they think three people can eat?”

“Mummy was well loved in the community, Sherlock, and she had many friends. They’re grieving too, but they want to make sure we’re taken care of,” he explained patiently. “They know it’s what Mummy would have wanted.”

Sherlock bit his lip, feeling like a petulant child, but just wanting their family to be left alone. “Yes, but do they have to hug us?”

Mycroft smiled fondly at him, kissed his cheek and pulled him into a hug of his own - ironically, a gesture that was perfectly acceptable now that they were grieving but one that would have been questioned at any other time. Of course the only person there to see it at the moment was Father and he was lost in his own little world. “I know it’s hard, Sherlock, but we just have to endure it for the time being.” There was another knock at the door and he released the younger man so he could go and answer it.

The curly haired genius listened as he heard Mycroft greet the next Mrs So and So, and graciously accept her condolences (and in all probability, her casserole). His brother had always been the one to be able to perfectly emulate acceptable social behaviour and he was in his element at the moment. He dutifully asked after the family of the woman (Sherlock had no idea who she was, let alone that her husband was Frank and she had four grandchildren), and then brought her through to the kitchen. Mycroft of course gave her a gentlemanly heads up of his father’s current state and she patted his arm and tutted in sympathy, saying that she understood and it was all perfectly normal. They appeared in the kitchen, and Mrs So and So made a beeline for Sherlock, and out of the corner of his eye, he watched as his brother opened the fridge and began playing Casserole Tetris to try and fit the container into the cramped space.

The last visitor of the day was Sophia, and at least Sherlock didn't find her so overwhelming. She was a no-nonsense woman, who remembered his aversion to casual touches and had refrained from hugging him, for which Sherlock would always be grateful. She and her husband, Graham had left them to it that morning after spending the night with Father, and she now returned to make sure they were coping. She opened the fridge and grimaced, then began pulling out all of the dishes of food that had been dropped off. She sorted through them, put a couple back in the fridge, a few in the freezer, and then waved at the others left on the table. “I have a big chest freezer at home so I’ll store these there for now. I’ll make sure that your dad eats properly after you boys return to London.”

Sherlock had felt a pang of guilt at that, even though he knew she hadn’t been implying they should refrain from returning home. How would their father cope though? _Would_ he be able to cope by himself? It was unlikely that he would want to leave the home he had shared with Mummy for all these years, so that ruled out moving to London. Maybe he needed a lodger? Or a pet? Should Sherlock go and buy a cat? Or would his father prefer a dog? He’d have to ask Mycroft since his brother would know what to do in this situation.

They helped Sophia carry the food out to her car and she told them she’d be back again tomorrow. Then she was gone and they were left alone. No one felt like eating much, but Mycroft insisted they all have a small meal, and even convinced their father to eat something. They then saw him to bed, and he went without a fuss, and neither son made mention of the fact that their sire laid down with one of Mummy’s jumpers clutched against his chest. They closed the door and then moved down the hallway. Sherlock stood, looking at the two doorways. “There’s no John and Rosie with us,” he said slowly, it suddenly dawning on him that there was no need to sleep in the same room. His heart clenched at that thought and his throat tightened as he fought down the urge to cry.

Mycroft reached out and took his hand in his. “The only other person here is Father and he’s in no state to notice which room we sleep in. Come to bed, brother mine.”

They stepped into the bathroom and brushed their teeth, their shoulders bumping against each other as they shared the vanity, neither wanting any distance between them. Sherlock then allowed himself to be led into Mycroft’s room and they undressed and climbed into bed. He curled himself against his brother’s body, and pressed his face against his strong chest, needing the reassurance of the thrumming heart beneath. “How are you holding up?” Mycroft asked quietly.

Sherlock shrugged. “I honestly have no idea. All I can say for certain is I wish I was like I used to be - when I didn’t feel anything and didn’t want to. I just want this ache is my chest to go away.” His voice broke a little on the last word.

Mycroft’s arms tightened around him. “As much as it would be easier if you reverted back to how you once were, I’m glad you’re not. We’d have never had what we have now if you had remained so. I know it’s selfish of me, especially when you’re hurting so badly now, but I can’t help myself.”

He managed a small smile. “Well when you put it like that, of course I wouldn’t seriously want that.” He sighed and then angled his head up so his lips could seek out his brother’s. “Is it wrong of me to want you to make love to me now?” he asked after finished kissing him.

“Why would it be wrong?” the older man asked, surprise in his voice. “Well, the whole ‘breaking the law’ bit aside.”

“Mummy has just died - I didn’t think it would be socially acceptable to be horny afterwards.”

His brother rolled him so he was hovering over him, and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. “There’s nothing wrong with seeking comfort and closeness during times of grief, love.”

“In that case then…” He left it hanging but there was no doubt as to what he intended. He lifted his head so their lips could meet again and one hand traced its way up Mycroft’s back and over his ribs. Mycroft’s own slender fingers trailed over Sherlock’s chest and hips and soon they were gasping for air as their kiss turned heated, erections pressing firmly against each other.

As soon as it was clear that neither would last long if they continued to rut against each other like desperate teenagers, Mycroft pressed a quick kiss to Sherlock’s temple and murmured, “I’ll just be a tick.”

A whine escaped from Sherlock’s throat at the loss of contact but it didn't take the older man long to rummage in his bag to find the bottle of lube he’d bought. He was soon back on the bed and slicking them both up, and then he was sinking inside Sherlock’s tight heat.

Their lovemaking was slow and gentle, with Mycroft’s arms wrapped tightly around Sherlock, his hips thrusting shallowly. Sherlock’s arms were locked around Mycroft’s neck and his face was buried in his throat, making it feel he was absolutely surrounded by his brother. He soon felt lips against the nape of his neck and he whimpered as he felt teeth graze the sensitive skin gently.

Without even being aware of it, tears started streaming down Sherlock’s cheeks, and he clutched harder at his brother. Mycroft stilled suddenly and gasped out his name as he came, and then he was squeezing Sherlock tightly against him, whispering words of comfort in his ear.

They remained together until it became too uncomfortable to do so any longer, and they reluctantly broke apart so Sherlock could clean himself up. Once he had thrown a handful of tissues into the bin, he nestled himself back against Mycroft’s side and the older man traced his fingers up and down Sherlock’s hips. “Do you want me to finish you off?” he asked.

Sherlock shook his head. “No, I’m fine, thanks. I just needed to be close to you so I got what I needed.”

Mycroft kissed his forehead. “I’m glad. Do you think you can sleep now?”

“Mmm,” he murmured in agreement and nuzzled against him.

“Goodnight then, Sherlock. I love you.”

“I love you, too. Thanks - for everything.”

“I’d do anything for you, brother mine. I hope you know that.”

“I do. Night, Mycie.”


	52. Chapter 52

Father seemed to be a little bit more alert the next morning. His face was puffy, and his eyes were red from crying, but he acknowledged them when he entered the kitchen and accepted the tea Mycroft made for him. It was a good sign and as Sophia would be around soon, hopefully she would stay so he and Sherlock could leave to attend to some business. He figured he may as well ask now and see if his father would cope if they were gone for half a day so he could make the necessary arrangements. “Father, would you like Sherlock and I to break the news to our sister? Or did you prefer to do it?”

Father’s shoulders slumped a little, almost as if the weight of the decision was too much. He considered it and then looked up at his eldest child from beneath his bushy eyebrows. “Would you mind? I don’t think I’m up to leaving the house today, but I think she deserves to know sooner rather than later.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

“Thank you, Myc.”

The compulsion to make a correction over the shortened version of his name was gone. It would forever remind him of Mummy and the exasperation he felt at its use was gone, to be replaced with a melancholic fondness. “I’ll go and book the helicopter.”

Sherlock gave him a small smile and as Mycroft walked out the back door, he heard his brother asking their grieving father if he’d eat just one piece of toast. He called Anthea and she assured him she would have a chopper waiting for them at the airfield and that Dawson would be informed that they were on their way. She paused before asking, “How are you doing, sir?”

He sighed. “As well as can be expected I suppose.”

“And Sherlock?”

“Maybe a little worse than I expected, but then again, he’s grown so much these past few years…” He trailed off, suddenly grateful for the journey his brother had undergone. He honestly didn’t think he’d cope if Sherlock had been his old, uncaring self.

“He’s not the only one,” Anthea quipped.

Mycroft smiled indulgently. “This is true.”

“Make sure you call if you need anything, sir. Everything is under control here, so don’t even spare a thought for anything work related.”

When he got back, he would have to ensure he sent Anthea on an all expenses paid holiday somewhere to show his gratitude. He’d had more time off work in the past year than he’d had in the decade previously but each time, she had stepped up and run the show without complaint. “Thank you, Anthea. Please don’t hesitate to call me though if you truly need me. I don’t want you put under that sort of pressure during my absence.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, sir. I’m sure if something above my pay grade comes up, Lady Smallwood or Sir Edwin can assist me. They are, after all, your colleagues and my superiors and technically should be the ones I handball the tricky matters to while you’re away.”

He’d make sure he sent her somewhere tropical. “I appreciate that. And you. I don’t say it enough, but I honestly couldn’t do what I do without your help, Anthea. So thank you.”

There was a stunned silence on the other end of the phone and then she was stammering her thanks and a goodbye. Mycroft hung up and couldn’t help but smile at her shock. His PA saw more of his real self than most did, but she was exposed to The Iceman so often that she still wasn’t used to the softer side.

He took a deep breath, his fingers twitching for a cigarette. Both he and Sherlock had managed to quit, but the compulsion to have _just one more_ was strong in times of stress. Of course, if they were still smoking, they’d never again have to hide behind the shed whilst visiting - Father didn’t have a problem with the habit, it had always been Mummy who would scold them. But that wasn’t ever going to happen again, was it? It was an odd feeling, to long for one more chance to be in trouble with your mother, but he expected that was a usual part of the grieving process when a parent dies. He shook his head, dismissing such thoughts and headed inside. He needed to make sure Sherlock ate something as well before they left. Maybe he could tempt him with some toast of his own? Or perhaps some leftover casserole…?

~~~~~~~~

They stopped by very briefly at the Governor’s office when they arrived. Dawson expressed his condolences at the news, and it wasn’t just an empty platitude. The man was genuinely empathetic in the way only someone who had lost a parent could be. They thanked him and headed to the lower levels, neither speaking much as they went. They reached the end of the corridor and waited as the guards opened the door that allowed them access to the lift. The doors closed behind them and Mycroft allowed his hand to reach out and squeeze Sherlock’s forearm in support. It was a simple gesture, and one that would be disregarded by anyone watching the video footage as two brother’s preparing to break the news of their mother’s death to their sister. Of course, that’s what it was, but it was so much more as well. An unspoken communication of Mycroft’s love for his brother, and a silent assurance that he wasn’t alone.

They entered the cell and Eurus looked up in, if not surprise, at least curiosity, as she saw them. Sherlock had been to visit not long ago and he wasn’t due for another visit for a couple more days yet. They’d requested the Governor not advise her they were coming so she wouldn’t deduce the reason behind the visit. Mycroft was adamant she hear the news from their lips.

She stood from the bed and crossed to the glass, her eyes searching theirs. Sherlock offered her a small smile and reached up to lay his palm flat against the glass. She mirrored the gesture and allowed a small smile to flicker to life on her face. Their older brother allowed them a few moments, knowing it was almost a ritualistic greeting they shared.

“What’s happened?” she asked, her eyes searching our Mycroft’s as she allowed her hand to drop away.

He sighed, and cut to the chase, knowing she wouldn’t appreciate his dragging it out. “Mummy suffered a heart attack the night before last. There was nothing they could do to save her.”

Hooded eyes bore into his pale blue ones and Mycroft resisted the urge to look away. He instead held her gaze, but was unable to read what thoughts were flickering through her mind. After a long pause, she nodded and then looked away. “Father...he’s taking it hard?”

It wasn’t just a question about their sire’s well being, but a confirmation that the normal reaction to the loss of a spouse would be that they were struggling with their grief. Not for the first time, Mycroft wondered if she would have learned of these things if Uncle Rudi hadn’t had her locked away from such a young age. Would she have turned out more like Sherlock and Mycroft if she’d been given a second chance after the fire? Or would her freedom have just given her more opportunity for destruction? He would never know for sure, but considering the fate of poor Victor Trevor, he was pretty sure which path she’d have followed.

Now though it truly seemed that she was making an effort. The connection she and Sherlock had made after the events at Sherrinford, when he had ‘saved’ her, and his ongoing dedication to expanding that connection seemed to have unlocked a part of her that until now had been hidden. He knew they would never be able to fully trust her; she’d never be released, but perhaps they would finally become the semblance of a proper family again.

“Yes he is,” Sherlock answered for him after Mycroft was silent for too long. “So are we,” he added.

Mycroft nodded his agreement and watched as Eurus processed the news. She seemed to retreat internally and he wondered if she had her own mind palace? What was he thinking - of course she would have discovered and mastered that memory technique, just as they had. But was she accessing hers now? Was she reliving her memories of the woman who had brought her into this world?

After a time, their sister turned and walked over to her bed. She sat down and took the photo from next to it, gazing down at the family portrait. She still didn't speak and her brothers allowed her the silence she needed to process the news. Sherlock shifted slightly, allowing his shoulder to barely brush against Mycroft’s. He gave the younger man a small smile, longing to be able to reach out and link their fingers together, or pull; him into an embrace - to offer comfort of _some_ sort. He grit his teeth together and pushed away the feeling, vowing to ensure Sherlock received whatever he needed tonight to help him deal with his own grief.

Suddenly Eurus looked up at them and the words out of her mouth shocked Mycroft as they were the last he’d expected from her.

“I want to attend the funeral.”

  


 


	53. Chapter 53

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget it's Double Post Sunday so make sure you click next chapter!

Sherlock returned to the family home alone that afternoon. To his immense surprise, Mycroft had agreed to seek permission to have Eurus attend Mummy’s funeral. Considering their sister’s history, Sherlock had thought it impossible and had expected his brother to say so, but instead, he had just looked determined and had said to leave it with him. He had had a long conversation with Dawson before they’d left - which Sherlock had  _ not  _ been privy to. Once the helicopter had returned them to the mainland, there had been two cars waiting, one of which took him back to London. 

“I should be back tonight,” he’d said, and then pulled Sherlock into a rather brotherly hug. The words he whispered into his ear afterwards were most definitely  _ not _ brotherly. “And once I have you alone, you are going to fuck me senseless.”

Sherlock’s pupils had dilated instantly, and his trousers became uncomfortably tight as he pulled away. Mycroft had smirked almost imperceptibly, and then had walked over to the second car with a small wave and was gone. Sherlock had been hard the entire way back, and his thoughts were distracted by images of fucking his brother. He knew that was exactly what the older man had intended, since he wouldn’t be there to support and comfort him, and he was very grateful for it. 

He’d recovered by the time he was dropped off outside his parent’s home, and he headed inside to find Sophia playing Rummy with Father. “Where’s Myc?” Father asked as he looked up from his hands.

“He had to return to London briefly,” Sherlock explained. They’d agreed they wouldn’t say anything until they had permission, so they didn’t get Father’s hopes up. “He’ll be back tonight.”

Sophia lay down her cards and then stood. “I should get going then. I’ll pop by again tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Father said simply.

“Walk me out?” the older woman asked Sherlock. The detective nodded and followed her through to the front door, and they stepped outside. It was chilly in the shade of the covered stoop, a quiet reminder that summer had ended. “How did your sister take the news?” Sophia asked once they were alone. 

Sherlock thought about what to say. He knew that their parents had revealed the truth about Eurus still being alive to some of their closest friends, but on the whole they had kept it quiet so they wouldn’t be the topic of village gossip for the next half century or so. If she was allowed to the funeral, that would all change of course; but that was an obstacle they’d face when they came to it. “More or less how we’d expected,” he replied, honestly but also probably cryptically. He hesitated, and then decided to add, “She’s asked if she can attend the funeral. That’s what Mycroft is doing now - trying to arrange it.”

Sophia pursed her lips. “How likely will that be? Your parents told me some of what she did, but you don’t keep someone locked away like that without good reason.”

He shrugged. “I guess we’ll see. My brother is the best negotiator there is, so if anyone can convince them, it’s him.”

She nodded, looking thoughtful. “Well, keep me posted. How are you and your brother holding up?”

Another shrug. “It doesn’t exactly feel real just yet.”

“It usually doesn’t until after the funeral.” She reached over and gave his arm a slight squeeze, her equivalent of a hug for him. “You boys let me know if I can do anything for you. That offer stands today, tomorrow, next month, and as long as you need it.”

He was so suddenly reminded of Mrs Hudson and her kindness that he pulled Sophia into a hug. “Thank you,” he said, almost reverently. 

She stood frozen for a moment, obviously overwhelmed by his uncharacteristic show of affection, but then she warmly returned the hug. “You’re most welcome, Sherlock. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He watched as she left and then returned inside, closing the door quietly behind him. He stood for a moment, listening to the sounds of the house, and suddenly felt hollow. The sounds of Mummy were gone; her music wasn’t playing softly in the background, with her humming along to it; there wasn’t the quiet clatter of baking tins from the kitchen; no bitten off curses as she attempted knitting for the umpteenth time; no loving banter between her and Father. The house felt empty, even though her presence still lingered in every room.

He pushed back his melancholy and headed into the living room where his father was. He plastered on a smile and clapped his hands together.  “Right, I’m making some lunch - what would you like on your sandwich?”

~~~~~~~~

It was almost midnight when Mycroft returned. He looked weary and exhausted, but also triumphant. Sherlock had seen their father to bed several hours ago, but he’d woken to a nightmare not long afterwards. Sherlock had given him a sleeping tablet so he could have some dreamless rest and since then, the oppressive silence of the house had been getting to him. He had all but pounced on his tired looking brother when he stepped through the door.

“ _ Mycroft _ ,” he had said breathily, burying his face in the crook of his brother’s neck and just holding him.

“Hello, brother mine.” They stood for a few moments, breathing in the scent of each other and taking comfort in their embrace, and then Sherlock took his hand and pulled him through to the sitting room. 

“Your texts didn't say much. How did it go?” he asked as he flopped onto the couch. As soon as Mycroft sat as well, he plastered himself up against him.

“It was an uphill battle, one that I wasn’t sure I could win, but we did have a victory of sorts.”

“Of sorts?”

Mycroft nodded and allowed his head to slump back against the back of the couch in exhaustion. “I had a meeting with the PM first, then with Lady Smallwood and Sir Edwin, then with all three of them, and then Elizabeth flew to Sherrinford with me so we could have another discussion with the Governor, and then once we were back in London yet  _ another _ meeting, but they finally reached a decision.” As he spoke, he reached up and ran a hand through Sherlock’s curls - a gesture that he seemed to take comfort in. “They won’t allow her to attend the funeral itself as it’s too great a risk to expose her to those sorts of numbers of people. What they have allowed is for her to attend a small, private service after the main funeral. It will just be a handful of people; she will have to be restrained like she is when she is in the exercise yard, and there will be two armed guards inside, and four outside.”

Overwhelming gratitude for Mycroft flooded through him and Sherlock squeezed him tightly. “Thank you, Mycie,  _ thank you _ . This will mean the world to her, and it also means so much to me. That you would go in to bat for her, to make this possible, I just...well, I have no words and that in itself should say more than enough.”

Mycroft pressed a kiss to his forehead and hugged him back. “I know you two share a special bond, but I swore to myself I would do better at being a big brother to her. I’m trying, Sherlock, I really am. I know we’re never going to be the perfect vision of what a family should be, but I have spent so much of my life watching my family from the sidelines, not connecting how I wanted to...well, I realised that those connections wouldn’t happen unless I took steps to make them happen. Having you love me as I have always loved you was an added bonus - just being able to reaffirm our own brotherly bond was the first step. Now I have the chance to get to know our sister, and to show her that although she’ll always be incarcerated, she won’t ever be alone. Not only will you be there for her, but I will be as well.”

Recalling his brother’s parting words from earlier that day, Sherlock took a moment to observe the older man and see if he was actually up for any shenanigans. He was tired, of that there was no doubt, but beneath that was what looked to be a bone deep weariness. As much as he wanted to make love to him, he knew his brother needed to get some sleep. He stood from the couch and took his brother by the hand, guiding him upstairs. That Mycroft followed with no complaints was testament to his exhaustion. They took care of their ablutions and then climbed into bed together. 

“Get some sleep, Mycie,” Sherlock whispered to him. “Father should sleep late due to the sleeping aid I gave him, so we’ll have time in the morning for me to fuck you senseless.”

His brother shivered a little at the words, but almost immediately settled back against Sherlock’s chest and fell asleep. Smiling to himself in the dark, Sherlock cradled him close to him and allowed himself to drift off.

 


	54. Chapter 54

Mycroft was pulled from sleep the next morning by a wonderful warm feeling enveloping his cock. He blinked his eyes open and looked down to see Sherlock busy taking the hard length as deep down his throat as he could. His brother’s eyes sparkled with a sexy mirth in the morning sun, and he winked as he ran his tongue up the side of the shaft and pulled off with an obscene  _ pop _ . “Morning, brother mine,” he said.

Mycroft grinned. “And what a lovely morning it’s turning out to be.”

His brother climbed up the bed until he was straddling his waist and ducked down for a quick kiss. “I was going to let you sleep in longer since you were so tired yesterday, but it’s already after seven and I don’t know how much longer Father will be asleep.”

“A most valid reason for waking me,” he agreed.

Sherlock moved his head down until he could suck one of his brother’s nipples into his mouth, and as soon as it had hardened into a peak, he let it go and then licked idly at it. Once he had shown it sufficient attention, he moved across and gave its twin the same treatment. Mycroft writhed beneath him, always having had sensitive nipples, and when Sherlock was happy that he had turned his brother into a whimpering mess, he returned to kiss him properly.

“I want you,” Mycroft murmured against his lips, his hands running lovingly up and down Sherlock’s sides.

“And you’ll get me,” the younger man promised, moving to lay open mouthed kisses to his throat. “You must still be tired from last night though, so you just lie there and let me do all the work.”

Happy to allow Sherlock to take care of him, Mycroft nodded in acquiescence and let his head sink back onto the pillow. As his brother began to kiss and caress every part of his body, he allowed his thoughts to wander just slightly. He had once upon a time never even imagined that he would have someone that he was so close to that he would allow himself to just let go; to place himself squarely in their hands and trust them to take care of him; to allow himself to be so open and vulnerable. The thought in itself was terrifying for someone like himself, who clung to a persona of strict self control and authority. He had long since discovered that it was  _ freeing _ to let go - to hand over the reins to someone whom you trusted explicitly, knowing that they would never let you down. For all of Sherlock’s faults - and there were a litany of them - Mycroft knew with absolute certainty that his brother loved him with his entire being. He would never (intentionally) allow harm to befall him, and if he was ever in danger of any kind, Sherlock would be there to go into battle for him; his knight in shining armour. Now that was a vision.

“What are you thinking about?” Sherlock’s low, baritone rumble cut through his thoughts.

He focussed and saw his brother was still straddling him but sitting back, tracing idle patterns over the older man’s ribs. “What makes you think I was thinking anything?” he asked.

“You had a smile on your face.”

“Your lovely hands and luscious lips have been on me, brother mine. If I ever get to the point when that doesn’t make me smile, you have permission to shoot me.”

He gave a small shake of his head, his curls bouncing slightly. “It was more than just that. Tell me? Please?”

Mycroft grabbed Sherlock’s forearms and pulled him down so he could give him a kiss and then rubbed his nose over one of those high cheekbones. “I was picturing you dressed as a medieval knight,” he confessed.

Sherlock sat back, one of his eyebrows quirked as high as it could go. “The depths of your depravity never cease to amaze me, brother mine,” he teased. “I had no idea your fetishes were so expansive.”

Mycroft chuckled throatily and squeezed his brother around the waist, making sure at least two of his fingers found a ticklish spot. “Brat,” he said.

Sherlock squirmed from the tickles, but didn't pull away, instead he went back to running his fingers lovingly over the naked flesh beneath his own. “So you won’t be asking me anytime soon for me to dress in that silly suit of armour that’s in your gym?”

He gave a small shake of his head. “You’re far too tall for that one,” he replied with a grin. “We’d have to have one specially made I think.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Not going to happen. Are you ever going to explain why you were picturing me in armour?”

Mycroft shrugged, suddenly self conscious. It was one thing to acknowledge in your head that you trusted someone implicitly to take care of you, but to admit it out loud was entirely another. Once given voice, he knew his thoughts would sound silly and childish. “It was really nothing - just a random thought.”

Blue-green eyes regarded him for a long moment. “You don’t have random thoughts, Mycie. I won’t laugh, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

That had been exactly what he was worried about, knowing that it would ruin the mood entirely. Sherlock though was like a dog with a bone, and he wouldn’t drop this until his curiosity had been satisfied. “Very well, but remember you promised!”

He ducked his head and gave Mycroft a gentle kiss. “I promise.”

The older brother looked away, unable to make eye contact whilst he admitted the truth. “I had been thinking on how I can trust you to take care of me; to always protect me. The phrase  _ knight in shining armour _ crossed my mind, and then my imagination filled in the gaps.”

To his credit, Sherlock didn't laugh, but his lips twitched into a smile. He pulled his brother close and kissed him once more. “I will  _ always _ be your knight, brother mine. I’ll probably be a pretty hopeless one, since you’re better at taking care of me than the other way round, but I will always try.”

“I know,” he whispered. Despite the ridiculousness of the conversation, he was overcome with love and gratitude for the glorious man above him. 

No more words were shared now. Having got his answers, Sherlock went back to the task of worshipping his brother, and soon he was lubing up his cock and slipping himself inside. They clung to each other, gasping against sweat slick skin as they moved together as one. Sherlock rocked his hips in a certain way and pleasure shot through Mycroft like a bolt. He hitched his legs even higher up on his brother’s waist, increasing the angle so the younger man could hit that spot again more easily. 

Sherlock’s hips started to stutter and Mycroft knew his brother was close, so he clamped down tightly around him with his muscles, giving the younger man the friction he needed to fall over the edge and into oblivion. He watched in delight as Sherlock’s orgasm washed over him, his eyes closing and his mouth falling open into a lovely heart shape. He trailed his fingers up and down the lithe back, feeling goosebumps break out in their wake, and soon Sherlock slumped against him. They kissed languidly for a few moments, but neither could ignore Mycroft’s hard cock trapped between them for much longer. Sherlock pulled away and then moved down to take him back into his mouth, his talented tongue seemingly everywhere at once. Mycroft was already close but when one, long fingered hand dropped to tug gently on his bollocks, he cried out and shot his load down the back of Sherlock’s throat without warning. The sudden orgasm was intense, and his body shuddered from the aftershocks for more than a minute.

Looking pleased with himself, and licking at his lips, Sherlock snuggled back in next to him and they lay there for a few moments, just enjoying being together. Real life was never far away though, and the reason for them being there soon intruded upon their thoughts. “What’s on the cards for today?” Sherlock asked quietly, his head pillowed on his brother’s chest.

Mycroft ran his hands through the silky curls, rubbing at one in particular to untangle the knot that had formed overnight. “We’ll need to meet with the funeral director to finalise the arrangements and give our preferences for certain things.” He couldn’t quite bring himself to say ‘choose a coffin’ while they lay together in their post-coital bliss.

Sherlock nodded against him but didn't reply. They knew their time together was coming to an end for the morning - Father would be up soon, and no doubt they would have more visitors. Both seemed content to just lie there against each other, enjoying the thread of connection that twined them together. 

All too soon, they heard stirrings from down the hall and knew that their sire was awake. After sharing one final kiss, they rolled out of bed and prepared to face the day.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the next few weeks I'll be taking a break from posting daily and will be posting weekly on a Sunday. Thanks for the continued support x


	55. Chapter 55

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had some awesome news yesterday so posting a little earlier than I had planned to celebrate. I'll post another chapter this Sunday, and then see how I go. If I still feel like I need a bit of a break, I might post twice a week the following week as well but I promise I will get back to posting daily soon. Thanks for your patience xxx

Mycroft sat on the hard church pew, his face a mask of calm as his father sat on one side, a sobbing mess, and his brother sat on the other, fidgeting nervously. “Calm down, brother mine,” he muttered to his side.

“We shouldn’t be here,” the detective replied, a note of irritability in his voice.

“It’s Mummy’s funeral, Sherlock - of course we should be here.”

“You know what I mean, Mycie,” he retorted under his breath as another mourner came forward to pay their respects to Father. “It’s not like we’re not having our own, private service later.”

He nodded politely to the gentleman who had moved on from Father and was now offering the boys their own condolences. One look at the scowl on Sherlock’s face was enough to hurry the man along. He sighed in exasperation. “Do try and be polite, brother.”

“Why? I don’t care for these people - the only people that matter are the ones who will be there this afternoon.”

“I understand, Sherlock, but at the end of the day, _this_ is the official funeral, and Mummy would want you to be here.”

“Why? It’s not like she attended mine.”

“That’s because you weren’t actually dead,” he hissed, glaring at the younger man. Why did he have to choose _now_ to return to his old, insolent self?

Sherlock shrugged. “And my attendance here will not make her any _less_ dead.”

“Oh, for the love of all that is holy, can you not think beyond the miniscule bubble of space around yourself? Father needs us, Sherlock, and that should be enough to warrant your behaviour this morning.” His brother looked genuinely hurt by his tirade and Mycroft knew he had missed something, but he was feeling his own grief heavily today and his mind wasn’t as sharp as normal. His eyes lingered on the coffin that sat only a few feet away and he tried not to picture Mummy lying within. “I’m sorry - I shouldn’t have snapped.”

His brother shrugged again and looked away, absently tracing a design over his knee. “ ‘s’okay,” he mumbled. “I just wanted to be there for Eurus while she was being transported,” he explained. “We’re not the only ones who have lost a mother you know.”

He reached out and took hold of his brother’s hand - the first time they had ever shown any affection in public, but he honestly didn’t care today. He was comforting Sherlock as his brother, and if anyone questioned it, they could go to hell. “I know, Sherlock, and I understand your desire to be there for her, but unfortunately you can’t be in two places at once. As much as you want to be with her, your presence is required here and this takes precedence.”

The younger man huffed but seemed to finally accept this, and gave the hand that held his a gentle squeeze. Mycroft felt fingers slip into his free hand and he looked down to see Father’s hand clasping it. He looked over at him but Father was looking resolutely ahead, his eyes brimming with fresh tears, the vice-like grip on his hand the only sign he acknowledged his sons were sitting next to him. Mycroft allowed his thumb to brush the back of the almost paper thin skin once, feeling the bones beneath, and tried to ignore the obvious signs of Father’s advanced age. How long would it be until they were here again, but this time looking at the casket that held their sire’s remains?

The funeral director came to the podium that stood to one side of the room and cleared her throat. The low buzz that filled the room that was overflowing with mourners died out. “We are here today to celebrate the remarkable life of Margaret Linda Holmes. I ask that everyone rise for a minute of contemplative silence.”

Everyone stood, the three Holmes men still with their hands linked, front and centre of the chapel. The silence was absolute, broken only here and there by a sniffle or a choked off sob by one of the attendees. Mycroft had done little else than think of Mummy these past few days and so he allowed his mind to wander to the service they would have after this. Their sister would be leaving Sherrinford about now, escorted by six armed guards. He’d like to think she wouldn’t use this opportunity to escape, but he knew he couldn’t place any trust in that whimsy. He’d just have to hope that if she did, they would be able to contain her.

His biggest worry - and it was one he knew his brother shared, even if he hadn’t voiced it out loud - was who Eurus would be exposed to at the private service. Of their friends in London, only Mark and John had known Mummy well enough to want to say goodbye to her. Unfortunately, Mark had been given a mission and after all the strings he’d already pulled, Mycroft knew he couldn’t request the agent’s presence. Rosie had come down with a fever and other symptoms that led John to believe she had some sort of virus. He didn’t want to immerse her in a large crowd, especially with the high number of elderly folk who would be there. The doctor in him couldn’t allow potentially immunocompromised people to be exposed to something that could lead to deadly complications. He’d asked if he could attend the private service, and Mycroft had urged him to remain at home so they didn't take unnecessary risks, but he was adamant. Mummy had always treated him kindly and he wanted to pay his respects.

_“John, please,” Mycroft had almost begged over the phone. “Do you really want to risk Rosie around Eurus?”_

_“Sherlock says she’s doing much better, and there will be armed guards,” he’d replied, more stubbornly than the diplomat had thought possible. “It will be fine, Mycroft. Besides - she’s in mourning. Do you really think she’ll try anything?”_

It had felt like a betrayal to their newly developing sibling bond, but Mycroft’s mind had shouted _YES_ to that. As much as he hoped and wished that she was on her way to being reformed, he was a Holmes and therefore too smart to rely on hopes and wishes. The harsh reality of the situation was that Eurus was a cold blooded killer, and had already escaped from the high security facility once before. He had gone above and beyond to seek permission for her to attend the funeral, but he was aware of the risks that posed. Perhaps his grief had rendered him stupid? In all likelihood, he should have told her it was not possible and have left it at that, but he’d not. It was a risk he’d been happy to take when he’d assumed it would only be himself, Sherlock, and Father, along with the guards; if she had tried anything, surely they’d be able to stop her? Now though, it felt like it was too big a gamble, too likely to go wrong. The stakes were immeasurably higher now that the child would be in attendance. If anything happened to Rosie, he’d never forgive himself.

He felt himself being tugged downwards and he came back to himself to see that the minute of silence was up. He settled back down onto the hard pew, and tried to focus on the here and now. Sherlock let go of his hand for a second, simply so he could retake it, but this time with their fingers linked together. It was the much more intimate form of hand holding and one that seemed to be used exclusively by those romantically entangled. He doubted anyone would take any notice, so he just gave the hand a squeeze and accepted the gesture for what it was - a source of comfort.

The funeral director looked out at the mass of people, and her eyes found the three Holmes men, and she gave them a small smile. “Margaret Holmes - wife, mother, friend, mathematician. Today we celebrate the many aspects of her life, and reflect on what she meant to each of us.”


	56. Chapter 56

It took longer than expected for the crowd to disperse from the funeral home and Sherlock sat in a corner, glaring at them all until the last one had finally departed. At least with a graveside service there was a definite ending point; the coffin was lowered, people threw flowers inside the grave, tears were shed, they left. Here there was tea and coffee, tiny sandwiches and cake, and the never ceasing queue of people who wanted to pass on their condolences. He had tried, really tried - just for Mycroft - to be nice and polite to anyone who spoke to him, but it had gotten too much, and was too overwhelming. People hugged as well as mouthed empty platitudes and he couldn’t rid himself of the feeling of unwanted hands upon him. One woman had clung to him as she sobbed and he’d stood frozen, unable to even try and dislodge her. She only let go when Sophia hustled over and pried her off him, who smiled soothingly to Sherlock as she guided the woman away.

Now they were finally alone, and they just had to wait. John and Rosie would be here soon, and then Eurus would arrive. The funeral home staff bustled around the area, cleaning away empty cups and small plastic plates, but there was an air of nervousness to them now. Although they had three chapels, and could run concurrent services, they had been closed for the afternoon. Rumours had spread of the government official who had turned up in person one day, who gave the boss a disarming smile but informed him in a sweet voice that due to security purposes, the small service in the afternoon would need to be conducted with utmost privacy and no other services could be held. She’d smiled then, with a hint of teeth, and the boss had quickly acquiesced. Sherlock smiled to himself at the image in his head of Anthea at her most authoritative, knowing no one would dare cross her.

Father disappeared into the chapel, seeking solitude so he could have one final moment alone with his wife. Sherlock watched as the door softly closed, biting on his lip as the reality of the situation started to sink in. Inside that room was Mummy’s corpse, awaiting cremation (she had told them many times over the years that she refused to become ‘landfill’ and no one dared to argue). The niggling feeling he’d had for the past few days, that she would walk around that corner any second, apologising for being late, was just wishful thinking. He would never see her again. He felt a hollowness inside him, an empty feeling deep in his gut, and he knew that it would never go away. That void could only ever be filled by his mother, but she was dead and gone, and so he would always have that empty space inside him.

He felt a presence at his side and looked over to see Mycroft settling himself down in the chair next to his. He held up a cup of tea, and Sherlock took it gratefully, suddenly realising he was parched. “You’ve not had anything all day,” Mycroft noted.

He grunted in reply, and sipped at his tea, just taking solace in the closeness of his brother. He could smell the faint, spicy notes of his cologne, and it soothed him more than he thought possible. Mycroft seemed to understand that he wasn’t in the mood for talking, and so they sat in companionable silence, the warmth from where their thighs brushed against each other spreading up and through his body comfortingly.

The door opened and they looked over to see John step inside, his eyes roaming the reception area until they settled on the brothers. Rosie was in his arms but she struggled to get down and now that they were inside, he allowed her to. She ran over (always looking like she’d stumble at any moment but especially today as she was still sick) and threw herself into Mycroft’s arms. Sherlock smiled as he saw his brother melt into the little girl’s embrace, amazed still at the bond they had. Right at the beginning he’d felt twinges of jealousy, but that was long gone now, overwritten by the sheer joy he experienced at seeing how much they loved each other. 

“Miss Mycie so much,” Rosie said, arms tight around the diplomat’s neck.

“I missed you too, my little menace,” Mycroft murmured to her. “Are you feeling any better?”

She pouted and shook her head. “Sick,” she stated and she sounded miserable.

“I can see,” he said gravely. “Your nose is dripping like a tap.” Yet more proof that the older man was smitten with the child - he normally avoided ill people like the plague.

John reached them and they both stood to greet him. He pulled Sherlock into a hug, and this was one he didn’t shie away from. “How are you doing?” the doctor asked.

Sherlock shrugged. “I suppose we’re doing as well as can be expected.”

John turned and pulled Mycroft into a hug as well, his arms enveloping both the man and his daughter. His brother’s pale blue eyes widened in surprise, but he returned the embrace with his one free arm, albeit hesitantly. Sherlock smirked at him, and then sat back down with the others taking seats to either side of him. Once they were seated, Rosie climbed over onto his lap and gave him his own cuddle. “Miss Sher Sher too,” she announced.

He ruffled her hair, messing up the blonde locks and she pulled away to scowl at him. He poked his tongue out, and she giggled, and then poked hers out in response. He pulled a face, and she retaliated, and suddenly they were in the middle of a face pulling war. He felt himself relax a little as he contorted his features into more and more horrible faces, distracting himself from his restless anxiety and Rosie from how horrible she was feeling.

Mycroft’s phone buzzed and he answered the call. “Mycroft Holmes,” he said. He listened for a moment replied, “Understood,” and then disconnected the call. “They’re here,” he said. “I’ll go and get Father.”

Sherlock watched him go and then put Rosie down on the ground and stood up. She reached up to take his hand and they walked over to the front of the room, John a step behind. Mycroft and Father soon joined them, and all eyes were on the door, waiting for their sister. Rosie let go of Sherlock’s hand and moved to his other side, then reached up and took his hand again. He looked down with a quirk of his lips and saw she had taken hold of Mycroft’s hand with her other one. 

“Remember what I told you, Rosamund,” he heard Mycroft say softly to the child. “The people coming might be a little bit scary, but they’re not going to hurt you.”

She nodded, her eyes serious. “Mycie, and Sher Sher, and Daddy keep me safe.”

His brother chuckled. “Yes, my menace, we’ll keep you safe.” 

The doors opened and an armed guard stepped through the door. He had his weapon raised, and they all automatically stilled. He glanced at them but his eyes were then roaming over the room, and as soon as a second guard stepped through the door, he moved forward to check out the reception area, and the three empty chapels. Sherlock noticed himself, his brother, and father all tense for a moment as he walked into the chapel where their mother lay, but as much as it felt wrong to have an armed man there, they knew it was the only way that their sister could be present. He had to check that the funeral director had secured the rear exit to the chapel as directed, otherwise the service could not go ahead.

The man finished his sweep and nodded to his colleague, who opened the door and gestured to someone outside. He held the door open so two men could enter, the thin, wraithlike vision of his sister between them. She walked forward as best she could whilst shackled, her head held high, but Sherlock could see deep circles under her eyes and knew she hadn’t been sleeping. It appeared the loss of her mother had hit her harder than anyone thought possible. Perhaps he was having a greater impact on her than he’d thought?

The guards who had done the sweep returned outside, part of the squad of four who would be stationed at the exits. Neither guard moved away from Eurus as yet, and Sherlock refrained from reaching out to her. He’d been briefed on what would happen and knew he had to abide by the rules. Only once they were in the chapel and the guards were at the door could they approach their sister, so instead he held her gaze and gave her a small smile. She returned it, and her eyes dropped to the toddler who was between her brothers, holding both their hands. Her expression changed to one of confusion as she tried to process the data in front of her. Neither brother had spoken of Rosie to her, but she was aware that John had a child. Eurus would easily deduce who she was, but she was now starting to see how much her brothers were attached to the little girl. 

For her part, Rosie wasn’t even looking at the restrained woman in front of her. Her big blue eyes were wide as she gazed instead at the menacing looking guard on the left. Her hand had tightened in Sherlock’s grip and she shuffled a little closer to Mycroft’s leg, pulling the detective with her. Without even being aware of it, John moved as well, his instinct to protect his daughter running on autopilot.

The funeral director approached, looking nervous and scared. She cleared her throat and in a shaky voice said, “I’ve gotten everything prepared for you so you can begin whenever you’re ready.” Her eyes kept darting towards Eurus, and the relief on her face that she wasn’t required for the private service was absolute. 

They all moved forward, the guards following behind as they guided Eurus inside. Only once everyone was inside, and the funeral director had shut the door as she left, did they let go of their charge, stepping back to either side of the entrance, guns at the ready. As soon as they were clear, Sherlock let go of Rosie’s hand and stepped forward, pulled his sister into a hug. 

“Brother,” she greeted him quietly in his ear.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he murmured.

He let her go and then gestured for Father to step forward. He was a little hesitant, and it was clear he wasn’t sure if he was hallucinating or not. Then his daughter was in his arms for the first time in thirty years and he clung to her as he weeped. Being restrained, she couldn’t return the embrace but she did turn and bury her face in his neck. 

“How about we go and have a seat?” Sherlock heard John say quietly to his daughter. He took her hand and led her away to the front of the chapel, giving the family some privacy.

“Oh my girl, I missed you so much,” Father was saying through his sobs. He pulled back and placed a kiss on Eurus’ forehead. He then turned and pulled Mycroft into a hug. “Thank you, Myc, thank you so much for arranging for her to be here.”

Mycroft smiled at his father and then gave his sister her own hug. Eurus looked shocked, and then pleased, and despite the devastating circumstances, Sherlock felt warmth pool in his stomach with happiness. Their family was finally together, even if it was only temporarily.

They all moved to the front of the chapel then and Sherlock helped his sister sit down between Father and himself. From his right, Rosie leaned out and looked warily at Eurus. His sister looked warily back, not understanding children at all, and clearly trying to piece it all together. He heard John whisper to Rosie that it was rude to stare, and she settled back onto the pew, leaning her head against Sherlock’s side. He tried not to look as he was sure she was snotting all over his jacket and that was something he didn't want to know about right now. . 

Mycroft moved towards the podium, but clearly felt uncomfortable standing in such an officious space when it was just their family present (he didn’t add ‘and John and Rosie’ afterwards because he knew Mycroft had started to think of the doctor and his daughter as family as well). Instead, Mycroft stood just in front of it, and looked at the small gathering. “I know you asked me to say a few words, Father, but I haven’t prepared anything,” he told them. “I wanted to speak from the heart instead.” His mouth twitched in a shadow of a smile. “I must have one in there somewhere.” His eyes met Sherlock’s briefly, and they both remembered the first time he’d spoken those words. Sherlock felt a stab of guilt go through his again for ever raising that gun towards his brother, but understood that Mycroft was alluding now to the fact that they both knew exactly where his heart was - wherever Sherlock happened to be. “I don’t think I will ever be able to explain just how lucky we were to have Mummy in our lives. She was a truly remarkable woman, but it wasn’t her intellect, or her generosity, or even her kindness that made her so. It was the way she loved us - all of us,” he added, making eye contact with Eurus. “Those few people who know Sherlock and I well can attest that we aren’t the easiest people in the world to get along with.” John snorted at this. “Acerbic, sarcastic, and rude are all words that have been used to describe us at one point. Yet Mummy still loved us, with all of her heart, seeing past these traits and into our cores, to who we really are. Father - she loved you despite your polar opposite personalities and the disagreements you’d get into over how to cut cheese properly. Eurus - Mummy never stopped loving you, not even for one second.” There was no need to mention what their sister had done. “John - Mummy loved you for the way you looked over Sherlock, and protected him from enemies and himself. And Rosie - my little menace - you were like a grandchild to Mummy and she loved you so very much. It was Mummy’s capacity to love, even the most broken of us, that made her so special. If she were here today, she -”

Mycroft never finished the sentence, as the door to the chapel burst open. As one, their heads all turned to the noise and before anyone knew what was happening, the guards dropped to the floor, dead. Taking a step further into the room came their attacker, a manic grin on his lips, and an empty eye socket behind an angry red scar.

Elliott.

 


	57. Chapter 57

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back to daily posts now - thanks for your patience.

Elliott’s one remaining eye locked on Mycroft and his grin turned to a smirk. “Miss me?” he asked, an unconscious parroting of Jim Moriarty. He looked damaged, but deranged, and there was no doubt he was dangerous. His right hand - or what was left of it - hung limply from his wrist, but elbow and shoulder were still useable, and Mycroft recalled from the file that he was ambidextrous. That meant the knife that was gripped in his left hand wasn’t just for show. The diplomat’s eyes flickered quickly to the guards on the floor, determining what killed them, since it had happened so fast he hadn’t actually seen it. From what he could see it looked to be a broken neck for one, and from the pool of blood on the floor beneath the other, perhaps a knife through the base of the skull. He deduced from the clean blade of the knife Elliott held, the one he’d used on the guard was still lodged in the unfortunate man’s head.

All of this passed through his mind in less than a second, as well as the briefest moment of fear. Then all that remained was anger. How dare this man interrupt Mummy’s service? How dare he put his family at risk? How dare he come for Sherlock? Mycroft had had enough - no more would he quiver in fear from this man. No more would he be the victim. It was time to end this once and for all. Keeping his eyes locked on the ex-agent, he spoke to the blonde doctor. “John, I need you to protect Rosie, Eurus, and Father. Keep them back and out of harm’s way.” He dimly registered the man had leapt to action and was hurrying them to the very back corner of the chapel. Instead, he allowed his eyes to glance at his brother. 

Sherlock had stood from the pew and had turned to face Elliott, making sure he was somewhat between the two men. His posture put Mycroft in mind of a hunting tiger - watchful, analysing, muscles coiled tight, ready to spring. Mycroft quickly unbuttoned his jacket and shrugged it off, then stepped forwards to join his brother, standing together against the sociopath before them. 

Elliott’s eyes glittered in glee and he rocked from foot to foot, his arms spread wide; ready, waiting. “Let’s dance,” he purred.

They moved forward, separating so they could flank the rogue agent. Elliott didn’t look concerned at all about their tactic, and spun almost lazily from one side to another, watching as they approached. Sherlock struck first, darting forward, his long limbs punching through the air, aiming at the hand that held the knife. He connected and the weapon skittered from the man’s hand, and Sherlock swung again, aiming this time for his jaw. Elliott dodged to the side, avoiding the strike, and reached up to grasp at the genius’s forearm. He jerked Sherlock forward, and went to sweep a leg from under him but Mycroft had jumped forward and kicked at the back of one of his knees, causing him to stagger. The youngest brother managed to pull out of his grasp, but the agent threw out his elbow, connecting sharply with Mycroft’s ribs and making the air whoosh from his lungs.

Both brothers retreated a step or two, regarding the man warily as they analysed the situation. From somewhere behind his left shoulder, Mycroft could hear Rosie crying, and John trying to soothe her. He didn’t try to push the thoughts away, but used them instead to help him focus - he had to keep Rosie safe. It was clear by the way Elliott continuously moved from side to side that he was compensating for his lack of vision, and it was his weakest point. Mycroft struck next, deliberately coming from the man’s good side, hoping then that Sherlock could attack from the blind side. 

Adrenaline was surging through him, and he  allowed his body to move from memory, trusting his brain to utilise the years of training he’d had at the beginning of his career. His hands connected with Elliott’s torso and he got in two hits before the agent struck back, the fist of his good hand connecting with Mycroft’s cheek and then the agent spun and used his elbow a second time on the diplomat. It connected with him right on the sternum and Mycroft was thrown backwards onto the floor from the impact, again gasping for breath.

Before Elliott could pounce, Sherlock was on him, his hands a flurry of movement as he pummeled the man. It seemed to make little difference; Elliott turned and backhanded Sherlock across the face, the force of the blow sending him staggering. Mycroft forced himself to his feet and kicked out at the ex-agent’s lower back, and then one of Sherlock’s feet was kicking the man in the gut. Again, Elliott didn't seem to be affected, and he lunged at the younger man, taking them both to the ground.

Mycroft jumped forward to haul the man off his brother, already feeling his energy sapping. How long could they keep this up? The experimental drugs his attacker had been given made him not only stronger, but more resilient to pain, and his stamina was much greater than that of the brothers. Even with two against one, he had a horrible feeling they were going to lose.

And then suddenly, it was three against one. As Mycroft grabbed the arm that had swung forward to strike Sherlock, Eurus pounced onto Elliott’s back, linking the chains of her restraints over his head and pulling tightly against his throat. With a roar, Elliott leapt backwards, unpinning Sherlock and both hands - good and destroyed - reached up to claw at the pressure against his windpipe. He swung about, trying to dislodge the woman from his back, and Sherlock scrambled to his feet and then he and Mycroft managed to land several coordinated blows to Elliott’s sides.

The ex-agent twirled about and using the monkey on his back for extra reach, crashed into Sherlock. The detective was sent flying backwards and he collided with one of the pews, the heavy piece of furniture not even swaying to decrease the force with which he hit it. He cried out in pain, and rolled onto the floor into a crumpled heap. 

Mycroft was circling the man, analysing every movement, trying to find a way past his defences so he could incapacitate their attacker. Eurus was still clinging to his back, but with both wrists shackled, she couldn’t find the leverage to crush the man’s windpipe. Already the cuffs were biting into her flesh as she utilised the chain, and blood was dripping down her arms, causing her grip to start to slip. Using the extra-long reach of his legs, Mycroft spun and landed a kick to Elliott’s ribs and he heard a satisfying grunt in response. As he spun back to standing, he saw Elliott start to shuffle backwards, heading for the row of pews across the aisle from where Sherlock was trying to get to his feet. Then the man hit the pews and bent himself backwards over one, pinning Eurus to the seat. He then continued with the momentum and kicked off the ground, flipping himself up and over until he landed on the other side, effectively changing their positions, with Eurus still on the pew, and Elliott now standing behind it. Whilst doing so, he’d managed to slip his head from the chains and Mycroft could see he was no longer restrained at all.

“No!” Sherlock cried, and he looked over to see his brother staring in horror as Elliott wrapped his good hand around their sister’s windpipe and began to squeeze. Mycroft launched himself at Elliott, jumping over Eurus to do so and collided with the agent so they both went crashing into the next pew along. Luckily, the diplomat’s landing was cushioned by the man beneath him and he straightened his fingers and jabbed his hand into the side of the man’s neck, directly at the jugular.

It did nothing. A move that would stop most men did absolutely nothing to stall the ex-agent and he was flinging Mycroft up and off him and then he was on him. Mycroft felt the pressure above him as Elliott pinned him to the ground, immobilising him, and he looked up into that twisted face. Elliott’s one good eye stared straight back and Mycroft tried to twist his head to the side, desperate to seek out Sherlock’s face, wanting that to be the last thing he saw before he died. The ex-agent wrapped his large palm around Mycroft’s throat, preventing him from moving, forcing him to look up at him. His legs kicked uselessly at the ground, unable to dislodge his attacker.

“This is how it ends,” he sneered, his breath hot against Mycroft’s face. He leaned down and licked a stripe from Mycroft’s chin, over his cheek and then dipped it into his ear. “I’m sorry I didn't get to have you how I wanted,” he hissed into his ear. “But I’m sure I’ll enjoy reliving this moment on those long, lonely nights just as much.”

As his head began to spin from lack of oxygen, he wished he could tell Sherlock one more time how much he loved him; he just hoped that everything he’d done up til now would serve as a reminder of just how much his little brother had meant to him. His vision had started to waver now, black spots appearing before his eyes. There was a sense of calm, of peace and he accepted that this was the end. He’d done some good with his life - the good outweighed the bad anyhow - and he’d loved and been loved by Sherlock and that’s all he’d ever wanted. His time was up and he could let go.

Just before his vision blanked entirely, he heard Eurus’ voice. “The only one who gets to kill my brothers is me.”

The pressure was suddenly gone from his throat, and a rush of oxygen hit his lungs. The black spots in his eyes danced a little but cleared enough for him to see Elliott’s good eye had gone wide, and his mouth was open in a little ‘o’ of shock, as blood poured from the gaping wound across his throat. Eurus was hunched over the rogue agent, Elliott’s knife in her hand. As blood started to truly spurt from the wound now, covering Mycroft’s face with the hot liquid, his sister yanked the man off of him and pushed him to the side. Then she was crouching next to Mycroft, the knife falling from her hands as she reached out to touch his face. 

“Thank you,” he wheezed.

Then Sherlock was there, collapsing down next to them, pain writ large on his face. His siblings helped Mycroft to sit up and then the three of them were holding each other in a bloody, messy, embrace, as the last of Elliott’s life drained from him a foot away. 

  
  



	58. Chapter 58

They had moved through to one of the empty chapels, and Sherlock was sitting on a proper chair, not one of those accursed pews. He had his shirt off and John was prodding gently at his back, eliciting small gasps of pain from the detective.

“Sorry,” the doctor said after a not-so-small gasp. “We’re going to have to get you in for an x-ray, Sherlock. I’m not only positive you’ve got a cracked rib or two but I’m actually worried you might have fractured your T8 as well.”

Father was sitting next to them, and his gaze jumped from his son’s face to his flatmate’s. “How can he be moving about if you think he’s broken his back?”

John smiled gently at the old man and shook his head. “He doesn’t have spinal cord damage which is what causes the paralysis. Getting a hairline fracture in one of the vertebrae is actually rather common and a lot of people don't even know they’ve done it, especially if they have a bad back already. They just think they’ve slipped a disc or something.”

“How do you treat it?”

He shrugged. “Much like a broken rib really. Just gotta rest it and take it easy.”

His father turned his eyes back to Sherlock. “Right, well good luck with that.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but was secretly pleased that his father could still crack a joke. It had been a fairly traumatic day for all of them, but having his wife’s service so violently interrupted would definitely take its toll on their father.

There was the jangle of chains, and Eurus approached. She’d been in the loo, washing her wrists as best as she was able so John could wrap them with a bandage they’d found in the first aid kit in the staff room. As much as it would make it easier to do so, no one even suggested checking the bodies of the guards for the keys to the cuffs to remove them. As much as she had proved herself today, there was still a reason she was on day release from a secret, high security prison. She took a seat and waited patiently as John finished prodding and poking at Sherlock.

Once the examination was over, the doctor handed over his shirt and Sherlock draped it over his shoulders and started buttoning it up whilst John turned his attention to Eurus. Sherlock glanced across the room to where Mycroft was on the phone, arranging for a team to be sent out. His brother was pale, and there were traces of pain around his eyes, but not a hint of it showed in his voice. He’d slipped completely into work mode and was the Iceman once more. Of course, only someone on the other end of the phone would believe that, since no one in this room did. That might have had something to do with the child cradled on one hip as he worked, who was currently playing with one of the buttons on his jacket.

As soon as it had become clear earlier that the danger had passed, everyone in the room had jumped into action to prevent Rosie from seeing any more carnage than she’d already witnessed. John had done his best to shield her eyes from the fight, but she’d still seen and heard more than a child her age should ever have to. Mycroft had staggered to his feet, not even wasting another glance at the man lying dead at his feet. “We need to check on the staff,” he’d rasped. “John, take Rosie into the room next door. Eurus, go with him and keep Father occupied. Sherlock, you’re with me.”

The two brothers had moved through the building and as Mycroft had clearly suspected, found that Elliott had taken out not only the guards stationed at the exits, but the funeral home staff as well. The only solace was that because they’d booked out the entire building, there had only been the bare minimum of employees there. They’d found the funeral director slumped over her desk in her office, a technician in the cold room, and two staff in the kitchen who had clearly been cleaning up after the refreshments served after Mummy’s funeral proper. Mycroft had closed his eyes tightly and sighed as they found the last two bodies, and Sherlock had moved forward and taken his hand to lead him away. He knew his brother would be feeling guilt over what had happened but he also knew that no matter how hard he tried, he would not be able to convince him that he wasn’t to blame. Not yet anyway, especially with the blank eyes of the dead staring at them.

They’d stopped to grab the first aid kit from the wall of the staff room as they passed, but before they’d made it back to the room they were taking refuge in, Sherlock had motioned for his brother to stay where he was. He ducked into the chapel where Mummy’s casket still lay, and hurried to the front where his brother’s jacket had been discarded. He picked it up and then returned to Mycroft, and led him into the bathroom. He’d helped Mycroft remove his shirt, still wet with Elliott’s blood and then had run some paper towels under the tap and had cleaned Mycroft off as best he could, trying to be gentle over the blooming blossoms of purple and red from the fight. Once he’d been patted dry, Sherlock pulled him close, their lips meeting in a much needed kiss. “You okay?” he’d asked quietly.

“I’ll be fine,” Mycroft had replied, leaning forward to rest his forehead against Sherlock’s.

The door had swung open and they both jumped backwards. “It’s just me,” Eurus had said, a smirk on her face. It fell from her lips as her eyes trailed down Mycroft’s neck and chest, seeing the damage Elliott had inflicted. “John needs me to wash the blood off my wrists so he can tend to them,” she’d said. Sherlock could tell she’d been struggling with the surge of anger at seeing her brothers hurt so, but her foray into the world of sentiment was still too young, too new, for her to express her concerns out loud.

Mycroft had nodded. “I really should start making some phone calls.”

Sherlock had handed him his jacket, a scowl on his face. “I hope they realise how badly they fucked up, removing your security.”

The older man had just shrugged, and pulled his suit jacket on, and buttoned it up. “Come on - John will need to check you over, Sherlock,” he’d said instead.

They’d left Eurus to washing and had headed back into the room where everyone else had gathered. Rosie had been sitting on Father’s knee, but the minute she saw Mycroft, she’d jumped down and rushed over to him. He’d immediately taken her into his arms, and seemed quite happy to make the calls he had to with her nestled against him. Watching them now, Sherlock found he took as much comfort in seeing them together as they obviously got from being together. Children of their own was never something they’d wanted - not only due to the endless questions they would face, but also due to the nature of their work lives. Being so involved in Rosie’s life was certainly the next best thing.

John was just finishing wrapping their sister’s wrists when Mycroft finished with his calls and came back over. “A clean up team will be here shortly,” he told them.

“Won’t the local police need to be involved?” Father asked.

Mycroft shook his head. “No, it’ll be handled internally. They’ll be advised of course, but only as a courtesy.” He cleared his throat, still having a little trouble speaking. “I’ve arranged for Mummy to be taken to another parlour,” he told them. “Since she obviously can’t be cremated here.”

Father nodded, looking away and swallowing down the lump in his throat. “Thank you, Myc.”

“Right,” John announced. “Rosie, you need to let me examine Mycroft now. How about you go to Sherlock? Just no wriggling since he’s got sore ribs.”

She looked sleepily at her father, not only the action of the day, but also her virus exhausting her, leaving her in no state to wriggle. She nodded and the brother’s transferred her from one set of arms to another. Sherlock made sure that during the exchange, his fingers brushed up against Mycroft’s wrist in a silent show of comfort. He got a small smile in response and then the diplomat was being directed to take off his jacket and it was his turn to be poked and prodded by the ex-army doctor.

Sherlock held the child close, able to smell faint traces of Mycroft’s aftershave in her hair from where she had snuggled against him. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and then nestled his cheek into her curls, watching as John tilted Mycroft’s neck from one side to another, examining the damage to his throat. The detective took a steadying breath to keep his anger at bay - Elliott was dead and was unable to do any more harm, but seeing the bruises covering his brother’s pale, freckled skin made Sherlock wish he could bring the rogue agent back to life so they could kill him again.

John moved down to the large bruise on Mycroft’s chest and Sherlock heard him tutting. “I think you need to be x-rayed as well. You might have a cracked sternum.”

Mycroft sighed but nodded, and the younger brother knew that if it wasn’t for their father being there, the eldest sibling would have refused. After everything that had happened, there was no way Mycroft would do anything to cause their father any more worry.

It wasn’t long after John had told Mycroft he was done that the first teams arrived on the scene. The leader immediately came to report to Mycroft and get instructions, and then went and passed them onto his team. Mycroft turned to Eurus. “Your escort will be here shortly, so we’ll accompany you back to Sherrinford.”

“Actually, you won’t,” John interrupted. “You need to go to a hospital, Mycroft. You and Sherlock both.”

“I’m sure that can wait until after we’ve seen our sister safely back.”

“No, it can’t. The last thing either of you need is a ride in a helicopter.”

Eurus gave him a small smile. “It’s okay, brother. I’ll manage by myself - I’m rather used to it by now.”

Father stood and crossed to his daughter, winding an arm around her waist. “You won’t be alone, my girl. I’ll go with you.”

Her eyes widened a little, and then she nodded, leaning in a little to Father’s embrace.

“Good, that’s settled then,” John said with a satisfied nod.

It wasn’t long before more men arrived, and Eurus’ restraints were being checked for the journey. Sherlock handed Rosie over to her father and then stepped forward to pull his sister into a hug. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart for saving him.”

“You’re half of a whole,” she whispered back. “I was saving you, too.”

  
  



	59. Chapter 59

It was very late by the time they got back to their parent’s house. The A&E department of the local hospital had been relatively quiet, but it had still taken several hours to get them both assessed and x-rayed. John had sat patiently in the waiting room, Rosie sleeping in a chair next to him for most of the time, and then once they were done, he’d driven them back. Father had actually beaten them home, and had one of the many casseroles in the oven to warm  He popped on the kettle and they all sat around the kitchen table while they waited for a cup of tea and dinner to heat. “What’s the damage?” Father asked them, toying absently with Mummy’s favourite mug.

Mycroft tried to give him a reassuring smile. “We’re both fine, Father. The x-rays were just a precaution.” It was a bald faced lie of course. John had been pretty spot on with his diagnosis - a fracture to the sternum for himself, and Sherlock had two cracked ribs. As far as they could tell, he’d not fractured his vertebrae, but he had to return in a couple of days for another scan in case it was being hidden by swelling. The younger men had all been in agreement that Father didn’t need anything else on his plate so they’d sworn to keep the extent of their injuries from him. “How are you doing?” he asked, unable to hide his concern for their father. 

The old man shrugged. “I said my final goodbye to my wife today, and then watched a madman try to kill my children. It wasn’t one of my better days.”

He had no reply to that. Guilt flooded through him once more, and Mycroft knew it was all his fault. This whole terrible situation had begun all the way back when he’d suggested using Elliott and Mark as faux partners for himself and Sherlock. If he’d been able to come up with a different plan, they wouldn’be in such a mess. Mummy would still be gone, but she’d have had a peaceful send off at the very least. His eyes flickered down to Rosie, who was curled up on John’s lap, fast asleep. Apparently she’d done nothing else but sleep for the entirety of the trip to the hospital, and yet she was still passed out. A lot of that would be due to her illness, but was some of it also down to trauma? Had she been scarred from witnessing such violence today? Was that another mark against his name?

He felt a foot nudge him under the table and his eyes met Sherlock’s. His brother had clearly deduced the direction of his thoughts and was trying to subtly derail them before they could take hold. He gave him a small smile, thankful for the effort, and tried his best to push away his morose ponderings. The kettle clicked off and he stood to help Father make the tea.

It wasn’t long before the casserole was ready and they all managed to eat a small portion, even if none of them quite felt up for eating. Most of all, they felt like sleeping and so they piled the dishes into the sink to be dealt with in the morning, and headed upstairs. Father disappeared into his bedroom and Mycroft gestured to Sherlock to come into the bathroom with him. “May as well share a shower,” he suggested quietly. “We’re both dead on our feet.”

The younger man just nodded and followed him into the small room, closing the door behind them. Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt and Mycroft stood behind him and helped him pull it from his shoulders. He trailed his fingers ever so gently over the nasty bruise that ran diagonally across his back, the point of impact where he hit the heavy pew. Swallowing suddenly became difficult, and not just because of the damage to his throat. It had been such a frantic day and it was only just dawning on him now how close they’d both come to death. He leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to Sherlock’s back, and then circled his arms around his waist, being careful not to squeeze his rib cage, and rested his head on one naked shoulder. “I love you,” he said quietly.

“I love you, too,” his brother replied, twisting his head around so he could place a kiss on Mycroft’s cheek. 

They stayed like that for a minute more and then Mycroft reluctantly let go and started undressing himself. Once they were both naked, he reached out and turned on the taps, waiting for the water to heat. Sherlock’s eyes darkened as he saw again the bruising covering Mycroft’s throat and chest and despite the aching pain he was in, the older man felt warmth bloom in his belly. He would never tire of seeing that protective glint in his baby brother’s eyes. To have him care so much, to want to keep him safe, meant more than he would ever know. To be the protected instead of the protector was something he would never have expected he would enjoy so much, but he did and it made him feel safe and loved.

Steam began to fill the room and they stepped into the cubicle, both hissing as hot water hit their sore muscles. As distracted at they normally became when they were both naked and wet, tonight neither was in the mood for anything other than taking comfort from having their brother close. They washed themselves and their hair, and once they were done, just stood together, arms wrapped around the other, letting the hot water cleanse them of the events of the day.

Sherlock yawned widely against Mycroft’s shoulder and the older man pressed a kiss to the shell of his ear. “Come on, love - let’s get you to bed.”

They dried off and brushed their teeth, and Mycroft popped them both one of the pain pills they’d been prescribed. Then, with only their towels wrapped around their hips, they crossed the quiet hallway to their room. Sherlock dropped the towel to the floor and sank slowly onto the bed, turning so he was lying on his stomach. “Ow,” he moaned softly. “I hurt everywhere.”

Forgoing pyjamas as well, Mycroft hit the light and climbed gingerly onto the mattress, trying to figure out what the best position would be to sleep in. He tried to lie down on his side - his usual sleeping position - but hissed in pain as it compressed his chest. He rolled onto his back, breath coming in short gasps and hoping that the pain pill he’d taken would kick in soon. “As do I,” he gasped in response to Sherlock’s declaration.

Sherlock began to chuckle, but it broke off in a painful gasp of his own. “We’re a right pair at the moment.”

“Mmm,” Mycroft agreed. “Normally one of us can play the caretaker. I guess we’ll just have to look after each other.”

One of Sherlock’s hands reached out and their fingers tangled together in the dark. “Always, brother mine.” He paused, and Mycroft knew he was trying to say something else. He remained quiet, allowing him to find the words. When he finally spoke, his voice was strained. “I was so scared when I saw he had Eurus in his grasp,” he began. “But when he was on you, I think my heart stopped. I tried to get to you - to help, but couldn’t get up. I have never felt so helpless before in my life. My body just wouldn’t work the way I wanted it to and I couldn't get to you.”

“Oh, Sherlock. It’s not like it is in the movies - human bodies just can’t take that kind of punishment and just get up and on with it like nothing had happened. You almost broke your back for Christ’s sake!”

“I know, but he was killing you and I couldn’t  _ do anything _ . Do you have any idea what it would do to me if I lost you?”

He tugged on his brother’s hand and the younger man took the hint and moved carefully so he was lying half on top of Mycroft. His head was pillowed on the older man’s shoulder, and he made sure to keep his arm wrapped over his stomach and away from his sternum. One of Mycroft’s arms was tucked under Sherlock’s shoulders and his curled his elbow so he could reach his hand up and card it through soft curls. His other arm wrapped around Sherlock’s waist, below his ribs. It was the best they would manage in their broken states, but at least their legs could entwine together with little chance of hurting them. “I know it would destroy you, simply because I know if I lost you, it would destroy me. I’m so sorry I put you through all of this.”

“It wasn't your fault, Mycie. I wish you would believe that.”   
“Maybe someday I will, but not today.” He turned his face so he could kiss his brother’s forehead. “Now go to sleep, brother mine. You need your rest.”

It didn't take them long to drift into oblivion, and they both slept like the dead for the better part of eight hours. It was sometime after dawn that he was woken by the door to the room opening. Too late did he realise that he and Sherlock were both naked and still entwined the way they’d been when they went to bed. Looking up, he hoped to see John in the doorway, but instead he looked into the impassive face of their father.

  
  



	60. Chapter 60

“Oops, sorry, didn't mean to wake you,” Father said jovially. “I’ll wait till you’re up before I speak to you.” He closed the door behind him as he left.

Mycroft lay frozen in shock, staring at the closed door. He heard Sherlock shift next to him. “Was that…?” he asked, trailing off. There was more fear in his voice than Mycroft had ever heard before.

He nodded, silently, and wondered when the fireworks would start. Obviously Father was shocked by what he saw, and had just said the first thing to come to mind, but there was no doubt in Mycroft’s mind that as soon as their father got his wits back, he’d be giving them a piece of his mind. 

“What are we going to do?” Sherlock asked quietly. 

It was the tone of sheer brokenness that caused Mycroft to turn over and pull his brother into his arms. He ignored the flare of pain at the angle, the need to comfort his brother taking priority. “No matter what happens, Sherlock, you won’t ever lose me. I promise. I’m not going anywhere.”

“But he’ll disown us. After losing Mummy, do you really want to lose Father as well?”

“Did you not hear what I just said, Sherlock? I’m not going anywhere and I will do whatever I have to do to keep you by my side.” He made sure their eyes met so his brother could see how serious he was. “If that means becoming the family outcast, then that’s what I’ll do.”

Sherlock didn't look convinced but after a moment he nodded, and Mycroft leaned forward and kissed him gently, “I have no idea what to say when we see him,” the younger man confessed.

“How about you stay here and start packing up our things, and I’ll go and talk with him. Maybe I can convince him there was nothing sexual about what he saw.”

“There  _ wasn’t _ !” Sherlock protested. “We didn't  _ do anything _ last night!”

“Yes, we know that, but I’m sure to his eyes, seeing us like this -” He waved at their still naked, entwined forms, “I’m guessing there’s few other conclusions he could draw - and really, he wouldn’t be wrong in the grand scheme of things. I doubt it will work but maybe I can persuade him otherwise.” He dropped a kiss onto the tip of Sherlock’s nose and then tried to roll out of bed. He was left gasping in pain and he took a moment to get his breath back. “Perhaps a pain pill before I go down to see him wouldn’t be amiss.”

He finally managed to dress, and a glance at his watch showed it was almost 8am. No wonder Father had thought they’d be awake. The door to John’s room was still closed and after the events of yesterday, plus Rosie’s illness, it appeared they were having a much needed lie in as well. Hopefully any yelling that occurred when he spoke to Father wouldn’t wake them. He took as deep a breath as he could manage with his injury (which wasn’t very) and steeled himself for the confrontation he was walking into.

He found Father downstairs at the kitchen table, the laptop that Mummy had mainly used open before him. “Morning,” he greeted Mycroft with a smile. “Kettle’s just boiled if you want tea.”

Mycroft paused, trying to assess the situation, but he didn't seem to be able to come up with anything. There was still no hint of anger on his father’s face, and if he heard correctly, he was even humming. He moved over to the bench to make himself a cuppa, needing the time it would take to analyse what was going on. Father’s general composure fit with what he’d read about grief - once the funeral was over and done with, some people threw themselves back into their lives with gusto, trying to find some sense of normalcy and routine to help them deal with their grief. It appeared that was what his sire was trying to do. That didn’t account for the reaction - or lack thereof - to finding his sons naked and in bed together.

Mycroft finished making his tea and moved over to the table, approaching as if the old man sitting there was a lion waiting to pounce. He knew he should rip the plaster off and just bring up the elephant in the room, but for once, he found himself at a loss for words. 

“Do you have this Skype thing?” Father asked.

“Pardon?” There was no way he could have heard that correctly.

“Your mother used it to talk to her academic friends who lived far away.” He was peering at the screen as if it were some wonder of the world. Considering that Father was technologically inept, it probably did seem that way to him. “I thought that it was probably time I learned how to use it. Since you and your brother need to get back to London, maybe we can use it to keep in touch?”

“You want to keep in touch?”

The old man looked at him in concern. “Are you quite alright, Myc? You didn’t hit your head yesterday, did you?”

He sank into a chair and hissed at the spike of pain before he could stop himself. He rubbed at his chest and shook his head. “No, no head injuries.”

“Are you sure? You seemed to want to keep from me the fact that you both have several broken bones between the two of you. I know you’re trying to protect me, but it’s not necessary, Myc. Now, tell me the truth.” He glared at Mycroft and his eldest froze, feeling like a rabbit caught in the headlights. Was his father demanding to know the truth behind the nature of his son’s relationship? The old man was suddenly on his feet and holding Mycroft’s head, tilting it this way and that to examine it. “Hmmm, okay, maybe you weren’t lying. I can’t see any bumps or bruises.” He let go of his son’s head and sat back down.

He was so far out of his depth that he was drowning. What the hell was going on. “Father, I -”

He was interrupted before he could finish the thought. “As much as I would love to use your mother’s account, I don’t want people to think she’s suddenly risen from the dead. The last thing I need is people making a pilgrimage to our house and causing a ruckus with the neighbours. Will you help me set one up?”

What else could he do? “Of course.”

The laptop was pushed over to him and he began the process, but in the background, his mind was whirring. What the hell was going on. “Did I ever tell you how your mother and I met?” Father asked after a moment.

“Mummy said it was at a summer function that Uncle Rudi was throwing.”

Father nodded, his eyes tearing a little as he thought of his wife. “I bet she didn’t tell you the whole story though.”

“That was all she ever said,” he confirmed.

“It’s true that we did meet at the party that Rudi threw when he graduated from university. It was a very grand affair, and everyone who was anyone was there. For all his smarts, my brother was at heart a socialite. Every summer when he returned home, he would hold several parties or balls and he always made sure I was included. He was four years older than me and I idolised him. He would let me tag along with him and I would be introduced to every eligible woman he knew. I had just started university so I was young, but considering the Holmes family name, I was considered quite a catch by most of those women. Rudi had left me to chat with a small group of women, and they were all fawning over me, trying to grab my attention. As flattering as it was, I wasn’t interested in any of them - they were, after all, only interested in our wealth, and not actually me.”

Mycroft had paused in setting up the account, completely captivated by the story. He had never heard his father speak of his early days so candidly. “And then I saw her,” Father continued, his eyes lighting up at the memory. “Hair the colour of honey, and the most amazingly blue eyes I had ever seen.  _ And that smile! _ She had my heart before she even opened her mouth for the first time.” His eyes flickered across and met his son’s. “Do you know what she said?”

Mycroft shook his head mutely.

“She asked if I wanted more champagne.” He chuckled at that. “She was there as part of the catering team, working weekends and nights to pay for her university degrees. “I was cheeky. I told her that I would love some but only if it came with a dance. She just gave me that brilliant smile and told me that she couldn’t right then but her break was in an hour. If I was still interested in a dance then, she’d oblige.” Father glanced over at him. “We were inseparable after that night, and it caused such a scandal. I was seen as throwing away the chance to marry into another powerful and wealthy family, to make new alliances, to strengthen the ties between one old family and another. I didn't care - I was in love. I have never once regretted my decision, even though there was so much backlash from it. I loved your mother more than life itself, and I loved her up until the day she died. I’ll continue loving her until the moment I die, and then hopefully we’ll find each other again so we can go on loving each other.” He reached out and gave Mycroft’s hand a quick squeeze. “Money, power, influence - none of it matters if you don’t have love to ground you. Never forget that, never let it go.” He cleared his throat and then turned his eyes towards the computer screen. “Right, so, how do I go about making a call on this thing?”

 


	61. Chapter 61

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Sunday double has recommenced :)

The plan had always been to return to London that day, so even though nothing had changed in that regard, Sherlock still felt like they were running away. Sophia had come round to stay with their Father for the day, and so he’d not had a chance to speak to Mycroft about his discussion with Father, other than a quick assurance from his brother that he seemed okay with it. When they’d said their goodbyes, the old man had given him a crushing hug and whispered, “Take care of yourself, and your brother. Never forget how much I love you, and how much your mother loved you. She’d want you to be happy, my boy.”  Unable to grasp how he could be so calm about it, Sherlock could only think that either there had been some misunderstanding, or his brother had managed some quick talking and had convinced him otherwise. It wasn’t really a conversation he wanted to have in the car with John and Rosie present, so he tried to put it from his mind until later. 

The car ride home was rather quiet, with no one up for talking much. Rosie was passed out in her car seat, making bubbly little snoring noises as she tried to breathe through her congestion. She had Sherlock’s left hand clasped to her chest and every time he tried to extract it, she would wake up and fuss. He’d stopped trying after the third time and accepted that he would only have one hand available to him for the entire trip. His phone pinged with a message and he managed to unlock it to read it.

_ Back from my mission and heard on the grapevine that Elliott ambushed you at your mum’s funeral. Are you guys okay? - Mark _

Balancing his phone on his knee, he typed out a reply.

_ Cracked ribs for me, fractured sternum for Mycie, eternity in hell for Elliott. Could have been worse - SH _

_ Fuck, I fucking knew they pulled your fucking security too fucking soon. I’m going to be giving them a piece of my fucking mind - Mark _

He chuckled at the message and held the phone out for Mycroft to have a read. His brother’s lips quirked into a smile, but it was clear he was worried. “Tell him not to do anything stupid on our account. It’s over with now and he doesn’t need to get into any hot water.”

_ Mycie says best to let it lie - he doesn’t want you getting fired for yelling at the PM - SH _

_ I’ll do more than fucking yell at him. I think he’ll look quite good on the telly with a black eye - Mark _

_ I rather think that’s the trouble Mycie wanted you to avoid. We’re fine, I promise - SH _

_ I’d rather see that with my own eyes before I shelve my plans for knocking heads together. When are you guys home? - Mark _

_ We’re on our way back to London now, Dinner tonight at Mycie’s? - SH _

_ Sounds good - Mark _

_ Excellent. We owe you a jam session - SH _

_ You do know you can’t call it that when we play such pansy instruments, right? - Mark _

_ The violin is NOT a pansy instrument - SH _

_ Yeah, Sher, it is - Mark _

_ You take that back! - SH _

_ Nope, cos it’s the truth. I’m sure we’ll debate it further over dinner though - Mark _

_ Count on it. See you tonight - SH _

_ Will do :) - Mark _

Sherlock decided he’d do some washing at Mycroft’s so John dropped them both straight there instead of stopping at Baker Street first. “I’ll be round tomorrow to check up on you both,” the doctor told them. “Just try and take it easy in the meantime, yeah?” He glanced in the back to where the toddler was still asleep. “No rough sex or anything,” he added with a smirk.

“I’m sure we can manage without inflicting further injury,” Mycroft said, cutting off the snarky remark Sherlock was about to make. It was going to be an intimate insight into what they got upto in the bedroom and Sherlock knew Mycroft was loath to share such details with John. He gave himself a mental shake to try harder to think before he spoke. As much as they still bickered amongst themselves, he was trying harder to keep it under wraps when around others.

They took their things inside and as soon as they got to the bedroom, they both sank carefully onto the bed and wrapped their arms around each other. “I can’t wait till we can do this without it hurting,” Sherlock complained.

“If it hurts, it’s probably best to stop,” Mycroft told him wryly.

“No, I need to be close to you right now,” he replied with a shake of his head. “Are you going to tell me what happened? What did he say?”

“He didn’t even mention it, but he did tell me a story about how he and Mummy met, with the moral being love is more important than anything and if you have it, you need to hold onto it.”

“So, he definitely knows though, right?”

“I strongly suspect that’s the case. Without him saying anything specific, I guess there’s the off chance he’s oblivious, but I can’t see how.”

Sherlock chewed on his bottom lip as he pondered this and Mycroft reached up and pulled his lip from between his teeth. “Do you think we should bring it up next time we see him?”

“God no. I think we should just be thankful that he didn't explode and be extra careful not to rub it in his face. He might be against the idea but be trying to appear like he’s okay with it simply because he can’t stand to lose us so soon after Mummy’s passing.”

Sherlock nodded and pressed himself closer to his brother. “If I wasn’t in so much pain right now, I’d have you stripped naked and would be licking every inch of you.”

Mycroft pulled back and looked at him with an eyebrow raised. “Where on earth did  _ that _ come from?”

He shrugged. “It’s how I  _ always _ feel when I’m close to you. Does it bother you?”

“Only insofar as we’re both injured so we can’t partake yet. Believe me when I say I want to be naked and under you just as much as you want it.”

“Consider this fair warning then for what I’m going to do to you once we’re healed enough.”

“You need to give me warning? Just what exactly are you planning on doing?”

He grinned. “I may have been browsing a certain online catalogue a couple of weeks back and made a few purchases.”

Mycroft’s eyes twinkled in excitement. “Really? Do tell,” he purred.

“Oh no, I’m going to keep the specific nature of them a secret and surprise you with them.”

“I see,” he said, biting playfully at Sherlock’s ear. “And there’s nothing I could do to persuade you to give me even a hint?”

He shook his head. “Nope.”

“Are you sure?” His voice was pure sex and before the younger man knew what was happening, his brother was getting carefully to his knees and unzipping Sherlock’s trousers.

“Wh...what are you doing?” he gasped as his cock was taken firmly in hand. “I thought we...we were taking it eas -  _ holy fucking shit _ !” Mycroft had been lapping at the head of his cock, using almost kittenish licks, and then he took the whole length down his throat in one swallow. Words were no longer at Sherlock’s disposal and so he closed his eyes and just allowed himself to feel. The warmth of Mycroft’s mouth, and the feel of his tongue as it laved at the underside of his cock felt amazing and he reached down to cup the back of his brother’s neck, rubbing small circles into the short hair at the nape. “Fuck, Mycie, so good,” he mumbled as the older man pulled off and then licked firmly over the head, dipping his tongue into the slit. Blue eyes flicked up to meet his and he had to stop himself from bucking his hips at just how hot the scene before him was.

“You always taste amazing,” Mycroft told him, his  hand moving up and down his shaft. He dipped his head back down and lapped at the steady stream of pre-come leaking from the tip. “Are you sure you don’t want to give me the smallest of hints?” He took the head into his mouth and sucked at it forcefully, letting it go with a  _ pop _ . “Just one, itty, bitty clue?”

Sherlock was breathing hard now and his balls were pulling up and tightening against him. “I thi...think, that this form of int...interrogation is against the Geneva Convention.”

Another duck of his head and Sherlock’s cock was hitting the back of Mycroft’s throat. “Interrogation?” his brother asked in a purr as he pulled back off, his hands never idle as they stroked up and down his length. “This isn’t an interrogation, brother mine. No, for that, you’d most likely be bound -” He paused for effect and then added, “And gagged.”

Sherlock moaned softly and Mycroft chuckled. “I believe that’s your tell, brother mine. I sense a gag and some fancy knotwork in my future.”

“Curse you!” Sherlock swore, his hips jerking now as he came all over Mycroft’s fist. 

Mycroft grinned at him and then lifted his hand, licking off the fluid that was dripping from his digits. “I’m very much looking forward to your purchases.”

Sherlock tried to glare at him, but did a shoddy job of it in his post-orgasmic high. “Do that again and I might not let you play with them,” he warned.

His brother got carefully to his feet and held out a hand to help Sherlock up off the bed. “I’ll try and behave till then so you have no reason to withhold them from me.”

“You’d better.”

They shared a gentle kiss then and Sherlock reached down to touch the front of Mycroft’s trousers. “Would you like me to return the favour?”

The older man just shook his head. “No, I’m more than happy enough with getting you off. Besides, we’d better have a look and see what we have in the house since you’ve invited a guest round for dinner.”

“I suppose since I promised dinner, I should deliver.”

They kissed once more and then Mycroft led him downstairs. Sherlock felt lighter, more relaxed that he had in weeks and for the first time in a long time that he could breathe easier. He took a deep breath and pain shot through him, a hand reaching up to cradle his ribs.

Perhaps not that much easier.

 


	62. Chapter 62

Mycroft patted Sherlock’s knee as the younger man scowled. “It won’t be long till you can play again.” His brother didn't respond, just glared out at the world in general and the older man felt a spike of anger at everything Elliott had taken from them - even if it was just temporarily. They had moved to the music room and his brother had picked up his violin but found the act of reaching up with the bow was too painful with his injuries. Sherlock used his music as a means of escape, but also to safely express himself, and the fact that he had been willing to do so in front of both himself and Mark was testament to how much he needed the release. To be denied that was just another kick to the guts once he was down.

Mark had been tuning the lute and looked over at the brothers. “Perhaps we can wait till next time?”

“No!” Sherlock shook his head, curls bouncing. “There’s no reason you two can’t play together.”

Mycroft took his hand and linked their linkers together. “I wouldn’t mind sitting out for the first piece anyway. Mark, how about you just get reacquainted with the instrument?”

The young agent nodded, and his fingers danced over the strings, playing short, practise melodies. Mycroft shifted slightly closer to his brother where they both sat on the piano seat, pressing their thighs together. Their joined hands rested on top of his knee and he reached over to stroke over Sherlock’s knuckles with his free hand. They didn’t speak, just tried to relax as they watched their friend.

As Mark grew more and more confident, he started to play a familiar tune, and Mycroft tried to place it. It wasn’t classical, otherwise he’d have had no trouble identifying it. As the piece came to an end, his head cocked to the side and he asked, “Sting?”

Mark nodded. “Yep.” His fingers danced over the lute and he began to play the song again. This time, he began to sing along.

_ You'll remember me when the west wind moves upon the fields of barley _

_ You'll forget the sun in his jealous sky as we walk in fields of gold _

_ So she took her love for to gaze awhile upon the fields of barley _

_ In his arms she fell as her hair came down among the fields of gold _

His voice was low and clear, but it was obvious the words he sang were almost an afterthought; a soft accompaniment to the music that never detracted from the mesmerising sound of the lute. Sherlock leaned his head against Mycroft’s shoulder and they watched together, a feeling of peace and calm falling over them. They had been through so much in the past month or so, and the constant need to be on guard, to keep one eye open, to always be looking over a shoulder had taken its toll. They were both exhausted, and then to have the crushing grief of Mummy’s death on top of all of that had been the straw to break the camel’s back. They needed a period of time where there were no surprises, no dangers, no emotional highs or lows - just a bit of quiet normalcy to give them the chance to recover, to heal from all they had gone through, both physically and emotionally. The calm that fell over them as they watched their friend play was the first touch of healing balm that they needed.

_ Many years have passed since those summer days among the fields of barley _

_ See the children run as the sun goes down among the fields of gold _

_ You'll remember me when the west wind moves upon the fields of barley _

_ You can tell the sun in his jealous sky when we walked in fields of gold _

_ When we walked in fields of gold, when we walked in fields of gold _

The song came to an end, and silence fell upon the room for a minute or so, just allowing them a moment to gather their thoughts. “That was beautiful, Mark,” he said quietly. “Thank you.”

The man shrugged a little self consciously. “I don't normally sing in front of other people, but I feel comfortable enough around you both to show that side of myself.”

The admission touched both of the brothers so much so that Sherlock didn't even made a barbed jibe at their friend like normal. Instead, he got to his feet and said, “How about a drink?”

Mark raised an eyebrow. “Should you two be mixing booze with those pain meds?”

The detective shrugged one shoulder. “Probably not, but at the moment I don’t really care. So, drink?”

They both nodded and the younger brother left the room to head to the kitchen, leaving Mycroft and Mark alone. “It’s odd to see him like this,” Mark confided. “I miss him being a little bastard.”

“I doubt it will be long until he’s back to his old self and you’ll be wishing he’d stop the snark.”

“That’s a bridge I’ll cross when I come to it,” he replied with a grin.

“No doubt,” Mycroft agreed. “You certainly seem to have a knack with controlling the troll beneath the bridge.”

“Yeah, I’m not sure how that actually happened, but I’m not going to argue when it seems I can pull him into line.”

“Just remember, with great power comes great responsibility,”

Mark gaped at him. “Did you just quote Spiderman to me?”

Mycroft turned his nose up haughtily. “I wasn’t  _ born _ old!”

“Yes, but I just imagined you differently as a kid.”

“And how exactly is that?”

Mark seemed to know he was on dangerous ground. “Well, you know, what with the piano and your super brain powers, I just assumed you’d read the classics…”

“Spiderman _ is  _ a classic.”

“Right, yes, point taken. How about we just let this drop now before I offend you anymore?”

“What have you done now?” Sherlock asked, stepping into the room with a bottle of whiskey and three glasses. 

“He’s having a hard time accepting my love of Spiderman as a child,” Mycroft explained.

Sherlock turned to Mark with a look of utter disgust on his face. ‘Don’t tell me you prefer DC?”

Mark slapped a hand to his eyes. “How the actual fuck did I end up having this conversation?”

The detective smirked and lined the glasses up on top of the piano, pouring a generous measure into each one. “Just your lucky day I guess.” He handed over the glasses and then raised his in the air. “To Mummy,” he toasted quietly.

“To Mummy,” Mycroft echoed, and the three clinked their glasses together.

“And to good friends,” Mark added.

“Don’t be a sap,” Sherlock told him with the roll of his eyes. "It highlights the void that is occupying your skull where your brain should be."

Mark turned to look at Mycroft with a mournful look on his face “Yep, you were right. I’ve reached the bridge.”


	63. Chapter 63

The brothers were sitting at the table enjoying a cup of tea with some breakfast when Sherlock’s phone began to ring. He looked at the display and saw it was from Lestrade. “Morning, Lestrade,” he answered.

“ _ Sherlock,”  _ the gravelly voice replied. “ _ I know this is shit timing what with your mum and all, but I need your advice on something. Are you back in London yet? Do you mind if I bring some documents over to your place to have a look at if you are?” _

Mycroft had already decided to spend the morning at work so he’d be a little caught up when he returned on Monday, and so the younger man had been planning on returning to Baker Street anyway. “We returned yesterday. I’m at Mycroft’s at the moment, but was just about to leave anyway.” It was novel to be able to tell the truth for once and not have to worry that the DI would figure out the true nature of their relationship. “I can meet you there in half an hour?”

“ _ I really appreciate that, cheers. I’ll see you then. _ ”

He stood from the table to clear away his dishes and leaned over to give his brother a quick kiss. “I’ll be back here tonight but I’ll let you know if I get caught up with this case.”

Mycroft nodded and gave his hand a squeeze. “Not a problem. I might stay a bit longer at the office then to get more work done. We’ll have all of Sunday together though.”

“I can’t wait.”

“Any idea of what you want to do?”

Sherlock smiled as he smoothed down an errant curl that was poking up from Mycroft’s hair island. “Other than having the time to be able to take it slow so we don’t hurt ourselves when I ravish you? I was thinking maybe we could start having a look at what we want to do after the conference in Vancouver. With everything that’s been going on, it’s snuck up on us. We fly out in four weeks and we haven’t planned a single thing for our downtime afterwards.”

His older brother pulled him down for another kiss. “That sounds divine. I just hope our injuries don’t prevent us from doing any of the things you want to.”

“By the time your conference is over, we’ll have had five weeks of healing time. Hopefully they won’t restrict us much, but I promise not to put bungee jumping on the cards.”

“I appreciate that. I know from experience that that puts quite a bit of pressure on your body.”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at that. “Why is this the first I’m hearing of this?”

The diplomat shrugged. “It was a long time ago - when I was more active in the field. I’d almost forgotten, to be honest.”

“You don’t forget things, Mycie.”

“Yes, well, having a rope tied to your ankles and hurtling towards the ground face first is something I’d much rather forget.”

Sherlock grinned. “So this is the true meaning of the ‘legwork’ you so despise.”

“Perhaps. Don’t you have a DI to meet?”

“Yes, yes, I’m going,” Sherlock grumbled, giving him another kiss. “I’ll see you tonight.”

He was most of the way to the flat when the cab got halted due to roadworks. They’d been stationary for five minutes when the detective figured he may as well walk the remainder of the way. He paid the cabbie and jumped out, closing the distance in his long strides. He turned onto Baker Street and saw Mrs Hudson walking in his direction, pushing a stroller with Rosie in it. His landlady looked confused for a moment and then gave him a smile as they closed the distance between them. “Hello, dear,” she greeted him, pulling him down for a hug. “I don’t know why I thought you were home already. How are you doing? John tells me you were injured during the service. That’s just terrible! Who would do such a thing at your mother’s funeral?” She sounded both distraught and scandalised.

He returned the hug and then crouched gingerly down in front of the stroller to greet the toddler. “I’m fine, Mrs Hudson” he assured her. He stroked the back of his hand down Rosie’s cheeks and the child smiled wanly at him. Her eyes were listless and her face was pale. “My little genius still isn’t feeling well, hmmm?”

She shook her head, but it was Mrs Hudson who answered. “Poor dear was awake all night, coughing. I could hear here from all the way downstairs. John asked if I could take her this morning and I hope the poor man uses the time to catch up on some sleep.” 

Sherlock tried to get back on his feet but winced in pain and Mrs Hudson put a hand under his elbow to help him. “Thank you,” he murmured as he breathed through the pain.

“Oh dear, that really doesn’t look good,” the old woman fretted. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

He nodded and found a smile for her. “It’s just a few cracked ribs, Mrs Hudson. I’ll be fully healed before you know it.”

She pursed her lips but knew how stubborn he could be. “And what about that brother of yours? How’s he doing?” 

He shrugged non-committedly. His landlady had gone through a phase where she had disliked Mycroft immensely, but it seemed to have passed now. He was around much more often, and as the brothers bickered less than before, perhaps she had softened towards him. “He took Mummy’s death almost as hard as Father did, and then with everything that happened at the service - well, I have to admit that for once it’s me who is worried about him.”

“As much as I don’t like to hear how upset he is, it’s good to see you returning the favour after all the years he watched over you.”

“I certainly have a debt I can never fully repay. I’ll probably stay a few nights at his house just to make sure he’s okay since he was injured during the attack as well.”

The old woman gave his forearm a squeeze. “Well you let me know if there’s anything I can do for either of you.”

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson.” He looked up to see Lestrade’s car pulling up at the curb outside the front door. “I’ll see you later.” He smiled at his landlady and gave Rosie’s hair a ruffle before striding off to where the DI and Donovan were getting out of the vehicle. 

“Sherlock, I’m so sorry about your loss” Lestrade said by way of greeting. “I really appreciate you taking the time to have a look. It’s been doing my head in.”

“When doesn’t it?” he teased, not really wanting to yet again dwell on his grief. “Need a cuppa?”

“I could kiss you. A cuppa would be great.”

“Yeah, please don’t,” Donovan drawled. “I don’t really need to see my boss snogging someone this early in the morning. Hold off on that until we’ve had a few drinks after knock off tonight.” She gave Sherlock a small smile and looked almost as if she was considering hugging him. “I’m sorry to hear about your Mum,” she said.

He nodded gravely. “Thanks. Come on up.” He unlocked the front door for them and they all filed into the entryway. Sherlock spied some mail on the small hall table and gestured for the two coppers to go on up as he grabbed it. He flipped through the small pile of envelopes, noting that most of them were bills, and there was nothing exciting amongst the delivery. He loped up the stairs and when he got to the top, he saw both Lestrade and Donovan standing stock still in the open doorway to the flat. He looked over their heads and saw what had stopped them in their tracks.

“What the fuck?” Donovan exclaimed, startling John and the man he’d been making out with on the couch apart. She turned to Sherlock, her mouth hanging open. “Why is John snogging someone who looks just like you?”

 


	64. Chapter 64

“Sherlock!” John exclaimed, moving backwards on the couch so he wasn’t quite sitting in Jonathon’s lap anymore. “I wasn’t expecting you back.”

“Obviously,” he said with a quirk of his eyebrows. “Lestrade needed to me have a look over a few things.”

“Oh, right, well, um, I suppose we should maybe head downstairs to Speedy’s for a cuppa while you do that.” John was blushing cherry red and couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes.

“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” Donovan asked, smirking.

“Oh, right, yeah. Jonathon, this is DI Lestrade and DS Donovan. They’re the ones that Sherlock consults for.”

The professor gave them a nod and small smile in greeting, looking like he had been ambushed. If Sherlock actually liked the man, he’d probably feel sorry for him. 

“Nice to meet you,” Lestrade said. He gave the two men a shit eating grin and added, “This shouldn’t take too long so you can come back and finish what you started.”

“I’m sure we won’t disturb them out here,” Sherlock told the silver haired Inspector. “It did rather look like they weren’t far off moving to the bedroom.”

“Nothin’ better than a morning shag to wake you up,” Donovan added, her grin as evil as Lestrade’s. 

Now Jonathan was as red as John, and the doctor seemed to pull himself together. “Right, that’s enough you lot. We’ll be downstairs.” He led the man from the room and they could hear John apologising for their behaviour as they went. 

As soon as they heard the distant click of the front door closing, both coppers turned to stare at Sherlock. “Who the hell was that?” Lestrade asked.

“And why is your best friend snogging him?” Donovan asked.

“He’s a professor at UEL,” Sherlock explained. “And I guess their last date went well if they’ve moved onto kissing.” He tried to keep it deliberately vague, but he wasn’t going to have it that easy.

“I always thought there was something between you and Watson,” the Sergeant mused. “Didn’t think I’d ever see him settle for another man, but I guess he’s found the next best thing.”

Lestrade’s eyes narrowed at that but he didn’t say anything as he didn't want to give away secrets that weren’t his to tell. He did turn concerned eyes on Sherlock when he asked, “Doesn’t it make you uncomfortable?”

“Why would it?” he asked, pleading ignorance.

The DI huffed. “Come on, Sherlock - that bloke could be your twin! It’s obvious why John’s interested in him!”

“To be fair to John, although it was initially Jonathon’s resemblance to me that seemed to draw his attention, he has discovered they have a lot in common. He’s not only attracted to what the man looks like, but to who he is.”

“Yeah but, doesn’t it make you feel....icky?”

“Icky? Are you a twelve year old girl?”

Lestrade threw his hands in the air. “You know what I mean, Sherlock! It has to freak you out just a little!”

He shrugged. “I’ve honestly not given it much thought. Now, can we get down to business? What did you need me to look at?”

Neither copper looked like they wanted to drop the matter, but Sherlock didn't give them a chance to bring it up again. He really didn’t want to speak about Jonathon Landsbury anymore than he really had to. The last thing he needed was to give away how his flatmate had met the man and reveal the connection to his brother. He didn’t think the first conclusion the DI and his DS would draw would be one of an incestuous relationship, but it was best to not take any chances. He just counted his lucky stars that Lestrade was no longer close with John. If they were still good friends and had regular pub catch ups, he thought it unlikely it would stay secret for long.

It didn’t take long at all for the consulting detective to peruse the documents they had brought with them and to make a deduction about who their culprit was. He then all but pushed the thankful Lestrade out the door, Donovan on his tail, and hoped they wouldn’t run into John and his ‘date’ on the way out. Once he was alone, he let out a big breath and pulled out his phone.

_ They’ve left now and it’s just me here so it’s safe to return. I can stay in my bedroom to give you some privacy - SH _

_ I appreciate that. We’ll be up in a minute - John _

He made his way down the hall and into his bedroom, closing the door behind him. He lay down on the bed on his stomach, not because he was sleepy, but because his ribs were hurting from sitting up for most of the morning. Sherlock knew he could go back to Mycroft’s to give his flatmate and Jonathon some space, but he was hoping to spend a little time with Rosie before he stayed another night at his brother’s. He suddenly realised that Mrs Hudson must have gotten a glimpse of the professor and that was why she had thought he was already at home. He really hoped she wouldn’t come upstairs until after the man had left, since he wasn’t in the mood to dance around the subject with his landlady. She was a much trickier interrogator than Lestrade. If things were progressing at such a rate, they would have to think of something to tell her, but he figured that was a discussion he would need to have with both John and Mycroft. 

He heard the flat door open and then made sure to tune out all noise from the living room. It was almost an hour later when there was a soft knock on his door. “Come in.” he called, looking up from a science journal he was reading.

John entered the room and came to sit on the end of the bed. “Sorry about that,” he said without preamble.

Sherlock shrugged. “I would have let you know I was coming, but I hadn’t expected you to have company so early on a Saturday morning.”

The doctor blushed a little but had a pleased smile on his face. “He had a few hours free before a lunch engagement, and we both kind of jumped at the chance to catch up. I was worried I wouldn’t be able to stay awake but it seems that the high as a kite feeling you get when starting something new is pretty good at keeping your eyes from closing.”

Looking closely at his friend, he could see just how exhausted he was. “Mrs Hudson thought you were catching up on sleep. She said Rosie was awake all night coughing.”

John nodded. “Yeah, poor tyke. It seems to be that pretty bad virus that’s going around so unfortunately there’s not much we can do but let her ride it out. She’s pretty miserable.” He yawned suddenly and hid his mouth behind his hand but it didn't muffle the sharp cracking noise his jaw made as it gaped open.

“You need to get some sleep,” Sherlock told him.

John gave a rueful shrug. “That’s the price I pay for my choices today. I’ll be fine until I go to bed tonight.”

“Don’t be silly - I can watch Rosie when Mrs Hudson brings her back. Go and get a couple of hours if you can.”

“You sure?”

“Of course - I wouldn’t have offered otherwise.”

“Cheers, thanks for that, Sherlock. I appreciate it.”

He gave his friend a nod. “Anytime, John.”

The doctor left and the detective smiled to himself. Despite the new developments in John’s love life, it felt like they were definitely back to their old, easy friendship. For a long time, he only felt comfortable being at Baker Street when his brother was also there, but now he felt happy and content once more when he was here alone. Things were finally getting back to normal - well, as normal as it ever got for the Baker Street boys.

 


	65. Chapter 65

“Camping?” Mycroft looked at Sherlock in confusion, certain that such a word had not slipped from his brother’s mouth. When the younger man nodded and grinned, he felt himself overcome with dismay. “ _ Camping _ ?” he said again, this time with a note of disgust.

“Yes, Mycie, camping. I thought we could drive up through the Rockies, maybe head for Jasper on a bit of a road trip, and we could camp along the way.” They were curled up together on the couch in the sitting room, having just enjoyed breakfast together. They had absolutely no plans to leave the house today under their own steam, and were settling in for an entire day of just being together.

“ _ Camping _ ?” 

Sherlock cocked his head to the side. “Have I broken you?”

“More to the point, are  _ you _ broken?” the older man retorted. “It’s no secret that we prefer the finer things in life, Sherlock, and lying on the ground with a thin piece of canvas between us and the dirt is most definitely not amongst them. I’m actually surprised you’d even suggest it!”

“I didn’t have a crappy little tent in mind, Mycie. I’ve been doing some research and they can be very luxurious. I believe they call it  _ glamping _ .”

Mycroft peered at his brother, trying to determine if he’d been abducted by aliens and had been replaced with a Sherlock suit. His brother huffed and pulled his laptop over to him, typing a few words into the search engine and then turning the screen so Mycroft could see the results. The set ups that appeared before him certainly didn't look like the tent he’d been imagining, but they appeared to be rather intricate. “Whilst I admit that they look much more comfortable than what a boy scout would use, I believe you have overlooked something of great importance.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

“We will not have a retinue on hand to travel ahead of us to spend the likely hours upon hours it will take to erect such a monstrosity every evening.”

“They are not ‘monstrosities’.”

“Yes, love, they are.” He could see how excited Sherlock had been about the prospect of camping, and it seemed he’d spent a good amount of time thinking about it. Mycroft would do anything to make his brother happy, even if his idea of their holiday had been to spend it in a five star resort. “How about a compromise?” he offered. “We’d have had to hire a car for the road trip anyway, so why don’t we hire a small campervan? That way we can still spend the evenings at campsites along the way, but it will be less exposed to the elements, and there will be no need set up a tent each night.”

Sherlock grinned and leaned in to kiss him. “Really? You’d be okay with that?”

“If it makes you happy, of course I would.” He saw the tiny flash of a self satisfied smirk on his brother’s face and suddenly the truth hit him. Sherlock was much too clever to have not thought about the campervan in the first place, but he knew that if he started off with the worst possible scenario, Mycroft would be more readily agreeable to ‘compromise’ to what Sherlock originally intended, instead of staying at a hotel like he’d wanted. His brother had cleverly manipulated him into getting his own way but Mycroft found he didn't really mind. Sherlock looked  _ excited _ about their vacation and he would do anything it took to keep him that way.

“Is there anywhere you’d like to stop along the way?” Sherlock asked, bringing up a map of the area on his laptop.

Mycroft pulled it over to his lap and expanded the map, and soon his eyes found what he was looking for. It didn’t look like it was too far out of the way, and would only add an extra couple of days to their journey. “Would you mind if we went south first when we leave and cross the border into the States?”

“Of course. Did you want to go to Seattle?”

“No, I’m not overly fussed about seeing the city, but I thought since this is a nature based holiday -” Here he cocked an eyebrow at his brother who laughed, “- we could go and see Mount St Helens.”

“Ooooh!” Sherlock cooed. “I’d love to visit an active volcano!”

Mycroft chuckled. “I thought it might interest you as well.”

“It’s settled then - we’ll go south into Washington, then come back up and head up to Jasper.” His brother was positively glowing and Mycroft felt a flush of heat go through him at the sight of it. He tugged him over until he was straddling his lap.

“Is this okay?” he asked, running his hands lightly over his back.

Sherlock nodded. “As long as I’m not hurting you by being here.” He touched a finger to Mycroft’s cracked sternum.

The older man shook his head. “As long as you don’t lie on top of me, I think I’ll be fine.”

“Good,” the detective said in a breathy voice, and he leaned forward until their lips met. 

They spent a long time just sitting together kissing, taking comfort from being so close as they re-established the intimacy between them. Sherlock’s tongue danced over Mycroft’s lower lip and he parted them to allow him access to his mouth. Their hands were as ceaseless as their lips and it wasn’t long before they were both straining against their trousers. “Do you think this would be easier if we took it to the bedroom?” Mycroft murmured against his lips as he cupped Sherlock’s arse.

“Considering we’re both invalids at present, probably.”

They got to their feet and headed for the stairs, but had to stop every few feet as the need to kiss and touch overwhelmed them. It felt like an age since they had last been intimate and neither seemed willing to let the other go for more than a few seconds. They were both dressed in what they considered to be be their ‘casual’ clothes, so were wearing button down shirts but not jackets or vests. Their fingers fumbled with the other’s buttons, trying to get hands on skin as quickly as possible. By the time they had reached the top of the stairs, Sherlock finished undoing Mycroft’s buttons and pushed the shirt off his shoulders, but he had yet to undo the cuffs. He held the shirt in one hand, essentially trapping the older man’s hands behind his back. Mycroft arched into the hold, feeling a small amount of pain in his chest but not enough to demand he be released. Sherlock gave him a predatory grin as he stood before him, shirt undone except for the bottom button, his lips red and kiss swollen. He licked a stripe up Mycroft’s throat and moved until his lips were brushing against the shell of his ear. “Oh the things I’m going to do to you when I know I won’t injure you further.” He tugged gently on his hands he had trapped. “I’ll tie you up and I won’t let you up until you’re screaming my name as you come,” he purred.

Mycroft’s breath caught at the very thought of being entirely at Sherlock’s mercy, and pre-ejaculate pulsed from his cock. “Please,” he whined, wanting it so badly, but knowing they had to wait.

Sherlock crushed their lips together in a bruising kiss, then nipped at his bottom lip as he pulled away. “Soon, brother mine.”

The younger man released him, and they continued towards the bedroom, stripping off the rest of their clothes as they went. Sherlock turned to throw his clothes onto the armchair that sat in the corner, and Mycroft winced as he saw again the bruising that covered his brother’s back. It was no longer as black as it had been but was lighter shades of blue, purple, and yellow. He reached out and traced a finger over the bruise, feeling the ridge beneath from one of the scars from his injuries in Serbia. He pressed gentle kisses to the skin, wishing he could take away all the pain his brother had ever endured. 

Mycroft then moved to the bed and lay down on his back crossways on the mattress. He allowed his head to hang over the edge and gestured for Sherlock to come closer. “That can’t be good for your chest,” the younger man said, but spread his legs so his cock bobbed closer to his brother’s lips.

“I’ll worry about my injuries, you just worry about feeling good.” He grasped the hard length in front of his face and guided it to his mouth. He licked a few times at the head, and twirled his tongue around the crown, wetting the skin, then slid his lips all the way down. He loved this position, how easy it was to take Sherlock all the way to the root, to push the limits of his gag reflex. Sherlock moaned above him as his nose touched the trimmed hair of his crotch. 

After a minute or two of Mycroft doing what he pleased, Sherlock began to rock his hips, fucking into his mouth, thrusting deeper and deeper each time. Mycroft could feel spit dribbling down his cheek but he pushed the feeling aside, relaxing his throat even more. He dropped a hand to his own cock, beginning to stroke up and down in time to the motion of Sherlock’s hips. He ran an occasional finger over the tip, using the wetness there to lube his shaft. He was already on the cusp of release when Sherlock started making small noises in the back of his throat, that got louder and louder until his thrusts stuttered and he was flooding the back of Mycroft’s throat with his come. Mycroft’s throat constricted around him as he followed him over the edge, coating his chest and stomach with fluid. 

Sherlock pulled out of his mouth a little, allowing Mycroft to swallow, and then the older man licked his brother clean. Sherlock straightened up on shaky legs, and winced a little as he rubbed at his thighs that had been straining to stay in position. He picked up the box of tissues from the bedside table and handed them to the older man so he could clean up, and then crawled onto the space next to Mycroft. “I missed that,” Sherlock admitted softly as he watched his brother wipe up the mess from his stomach.

Mycroft made a hum of agreement. “I missed it too. I missed  _ you _ .”

They held each other for a little while, enjoying being able to just laze about. Eventually though, Mycroft’s chest began to ache from lying in that position. “Shall we get up?” he asked.

“Yes, we have more research to do.”

“Oh?”

Sherlock jumped up from the bed, suddenly full of energy. “Yes, I’m sure I read that they do helicopter tours over Mount St Helens. I want to see if that’s true because if it, we  _ have _ to do that.”

Mycroft chuckled. “Without a doubt.” He climbed off the bed and pulled on a robe, tying it at the waist. He gestured to the door and said, “Lead the way.”


	66. Chapter 66

Sherlock watched the waves of the ocean pass by beneath as he looked out the window of the helicopter. Mycroft had returned to work and couldn’t accompany him, but Sherlock had needed to check in with their sister, to make sure she was doing okay after the disastrous funeral service. They had phoned Father the night before to see how he was coping (he seemed completely unfazed that they were both at Mycroft’s house, but they deliberately avoided speaking of it), and he seemed to be coping as well as could be expected. Sophia and her husband had not only been visiting every day, but had invited him over for dinner the night previously to get him out of the house. Both brothers were grateful to the woman for being such a supportive friend.

They reached the island and Sherlock headed for the Governor’s office. Dawson saw him coming through the glass and waved him inside. “Sherlock,” he greeted him. “I’m so sorry to hear about the events that occurred at your mother’s funeral.”

“And I’m sorry that your men got caught in the crossfire,” Sherlock replied. “If we’d had any indication that we’d be ambushed at the service, we’d never have requested my sister be allowed to attend.”

Dawson nodded solemnly. “I know, but I appreciate you saying that nonetheless. They were good men and they’ll be missed.” He seemed to deflate a little and the detective felt a pang of guilt go through him. If he’d never interfered all that time ago and had allowed Mark to finish the job, those men would still be alive. “Your sister is expecting you,” Dawson continued. “You’re welcome to take her up top if you want. No time limit today - I know she was protecting you and your brother, but the fact she took out the man who killed my men needs some sort of reward. Not that I’ll ever admit to that outside of this room.”

Sherlock gave him a small smile. “My lips are sealed.”

“Good, good.” The man moved back around his desk, preparing to return to the paperwork that was stacked there. “Thanks for stopping in.”

“Thank you for your hospitality,” he replied, the manners Mummy had hammered into him as a child finally surfacing. He nodded to the man and then left his office, making his way to his sister’s cell. 

Eurus was sitting on the floor, surrounded by her charcoal drawings and didn’t look up as he entered. A memory flashed through his head of a much younger version of his sister, sitting on the floor of her room, surrounded by drawings; of fire and panic, and empty eyes staring uncaring at the wreckage. He felt a shiver go through him when he saw the nature of her new drawings, gaping maws on eyeless faces screaming silently, long fingered hands right out of a nightmare reaching out, chaos and fear. A prickle of fear went through him as the thought occurred to him that the act of killing again may have reverted her to her previous state of mind.

“Stop analysing me, Sherlock,” she said, finally raising her head to look at him. “I’m no different to how I was the last time you came to visit.” He raised an eyebrow in disbelief and gestured to her drawings. She managed to look a little sheepish as she took them in. “This is a way for me to work through my anger. It’s entirely therapeutic.”

“And what are you so angry at?”

She looked surprised. “You even have to ask?”

He cocked his head slightly to the side as he regarded her. “No, I suppose not.”

She stood and crossed to the glass, her hands balled into fists at her side. “For the longest time I had no sense of family, Sherlock. To me, family abandoned me, imprisoned me, kept me locked away only to be used when a puzzle was too great.  _ You _ showed me it could be different. After all I did to you,  _ you _ forgave me and reached out to me,  _ you _ are the one who guided me home. This past year I have come to realise just what it means to have a family again, and as hard as it is to believe, I understood that everything that was done to me was done out of a need to protect that very family.” Her face twisted into a snarl. “And then someone threatened you, threatened  _ my _ family. He attacked us when we were at our lowest, when we were grieving, and even though he’s dead now - at my hand - I still have so much anger towards him. How close did I come to losing you, losing  _ this _ . Do you know how quickly I would descend back into the darkness if it weren’t for your visits, for getting to spend time with not only you, but also Father and Mycroft?” Her dark eyes were glowing with the passion of her speech, and Sherlock found himself mesmerised. “So yes, I’m still angry, and I need a way to vent that anger. I don’t  _ want _ to go back to how I was, now that I know what I can have, but it’s always there, calling to me. Some days the call is louder and more insistent, and harder to ignore. It feels like it takes more energy than I have to resist it, but thinking of you helps. I’ll play one of our pieces and it helps me focus, helps me to be strong.” Her eyes closed and when she next spoke, her voice was low, pleading. “If I ever stumble, if I ever fall back into the darkness’ embrace, I don’t know if even you could reach me again, Sherlock. If that happens, if I fall, I need you to do something for me.”

His breath had caught in his chest at her words but he managed to hoarsely whisper, “What would you need?”

Her eyes snapped open. “You’d need to kill me, brother.”

He found himself shaking his head from side to side, unable to even contemplate doing such a thing. “No. Eurus, I couldn’t.”

“You’d have to. Take me out, put me down, like a rabid dog. I would destroy you, destroy our family and I can’t have that. Sherlock, promise me,” she pleaded. “Promise me that you won’t ever allow me to destroy our family.”

He watched in amazement as tears flowed down her cheeks. The only time he had ever seen her cry was when he’d found her at Musgrave and had guided her back to reality. He found himself nodding, agreeing, doing what he had to to stop her pain. “I promise, Eurus.”

She held his gaze for a long moment, reading the intent behind his words. She must have been satisfied with what she saw as she nodded and turned away, swiping at the wetness on her cheeks. “Thank you.”

There was silence for a while as she composed herself, and then he asked, “Would you like to go up top today? It’s a bit cold in the wind but the sun is shining. We probably won’t get more days like this before the weather starts to turn so we should probably take advantage of it.”

She nodded, turning to him with a wan smile on her face. He went to fetch the guards, and they quickly came in to secure Eurus. Under Dawson, the guards had never been cruel - always professional but strict -  but today, there was something a little different. They nodded respectfully to their prisoner, and made courteous small talk as they fastened the restraints, just tiny differences to before. No matter the organisation, gossip spread like wildfire and it was obvious that word had gotten around that it was Eurus who had taken out the man who had killed their colleagues. It was clear they still didn’t trust her - they were too good at their jobs to have that lapse in judgement - but they appreciated what she had done and wanted to express that as much as their boundaries allowed. She gave them a small nod of acknowledgement, and then they led her out of her cell. 

It didn't take long to make the journey to the top and soon the doors were closing behind them and a chill wind was whipping around their legs. Before they could even head to their regular spot, Sherlock pulled his sister to him, hugging her close. “I’ll never let the darkness take you again,” he vowed. “Not just me, but Father and Mycie, we’ll be your tether. We’ll keep you here with us.”

She leaned her head against his chest, unable to return the hug whilst restrained. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you, brother.”

 


	67. Chapter 67

There was a knock at the door and Mycroft looked up to see Anthea popping her head in. “Detective Inspector Lestrade is asking to see you, sir,” she told him.

He frowned, wondering what the man could want to discuss. Ever since their relationship had changed, Sherlock had been much less self destructive and it wasn’t often the DI came to speak to Mycroft about his concerns anymore. He mostly saw him now when Sherlock was injured (which still happened much more often than the diplomat was happy with). Of course, the man had no idea _why_ Sherlock’s destructive tendencies had lessened, but that was besides the point. “Show him in,” he said.

Lestrade gave Mycroft one of his signature grins as he entered and he stood to shake the man’s hand. “Lestrade, it’s good to see you. Please, have a seat.” He gestured to one of the visitor chairs and took the other himself.

“Cheers, Mycroft.” The man sat down and waved away the offer of a cup of tea. “I’m here on my lunch break so I can’t stay long.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at that. “So I can assume that this isn’t in regards to anything official?”

“No,” the DI said, drawing it out. He bit his lower lip, and looked a little uncomfortable. “Look, I know that you and your brother have been getting along much better recently, but I have a feeling he’d still be pissed if he knew I was speaking to you about this. I don’t want to make waves but I’m a little concerned about something.”

“Clearly. I assure you, Gregory, that unless I deem it dire enough, I won’t share with Sherlock what you’re about to tell me.” He hoped the use of the man’s first name would help ease his tension and give the discussion a much more personal vibe.

Lestrade nodded. “Yeah, I know you wouldn’t. Right, well, I’ll just cut to the chase then. How much do you know about the bloke John Watson is currently seeing?”

Of all the things he had expected, that was not one of them. “Pardon?”

“John is seeing a man, and I was wondering if you knew.”

Mycroft’s mind was whirring but he couldn’t figure out how much to reveal. “I was aware he’d started dating again,” he replied vaguely.

“Look, I know Sherlock stayed with you for a while ages ago when John was pushing for something to happen between them.” Mycroft nodded, knowing that Sherlock had confided in Lestrade one afternoon. “He told me about some of the things John had done, how he’d hit him on more than one occasion…” The DI swallowed heavily and the diplomat could see the repressed rage in his eyes. “I don’t know if you knew about that, seeing as the man is still alive.”

“I was informed, and trust me, I dealt with it. John Watson will never raise a hand against my brother again.”

Lestrade nodded. “Good, that’s good.” He ran a hand through his silver hair and sighed. “You know, I always liked John, and I was shocked when I heard about how he treated Sherlock. My Da used to beat on my mum and I, so violence like that is something I can never forgive. I was less surprised by his desire to start a relationship with our boy. He was never as ‘not gay’ as he claimed to be. Sherlock told me that even after he’d rejected John the first time, John tried a couple more times to convince him. He didn’t seem to want to take no for an answer.”

Mycroft nodded slowly, remembering the moment he found the doctor kissing Sherlock in the snow. “He did, but he did eventually get the message that my brother was not interested. It strained their friendship for a while, but they seem to have repaired that rift now.”

It was the DI’s turn to nod. “So I’ve seen. I don’t understand how Sherlock could be so forgiving, but that’s not my place. But it’s obvious John hasn’t gotten over his desire for Sherlock. The new bloke he’s seeing is a carbon copy of your brother.” When Mycroft just nodded again, Lestrade narrowed his eyes. “You know..” He shook his head, and ran another hand through his hair. “I’m a bit slow today, aren’t I? Of course you’d bloody know. You probably knew the instant John met the guy.”

 _Something like that_ , Mycroft thought. “I am aware of how Jonathon Landsbury resembles Sherlock.” _Intimately._ “It’s a bit of a sensitive matter as I’m sure you can understand.”

Warm brown eyes were filled with concern. “I’m worried about Sherlock,” he admitted. “Sally and I went round to Baker Street the other morning to ask Sherlock’s advice on something, and I saw the man there.”

Mycroft nodded, but didn't mention that Sherlock had told him that the coppers had seen Jonathon.

“If I didn't know Sherlock was standing behind me, I would have sworn it was him on the couch snogging John.”

One of Mycroft’s eyebrows shot up. His brother had failed to mention they’d caught the two men in an intimate position. He’d only said that the professor had been at 221B and the DI and DS had met him. “Indeed. How very...awkward.”

“As awkward as it might have been for Sal and I, I can only imagine how bloody awkward it must have been for Sherlock. He just brushed me off when I tried to raise the issue, but that has got to be more than a little uncomfortable for him. Frankly, I’m surprised John stooped that low to be honest. It’s a bit of a dick move.”

Since he really couldn’t explain that Sherlock had been the one to try and push the two men together, he asked instead, “And just what do you expect me to do about it?”

“I’m not an idiot - I know that no matter how much power you hold, you can’t dictate who John sees and who he doesn’t. I guess I just wanted you to know that I’m worried, and ask that you keep an eye on Sherlock. I mean, I know you already do, but if you could keep an extra close eye on him for a while, it would make me feel a lot better. As much as I’ve offered, he’s not going to talk to me, but he might open up to you.”

“While it’s true that the animosity between us has eased a little, I don’t believe my brother would discuss something like this with me.” Why was it so hard to lie to this man? Half truths and deception came so easily to Mycroft, but to mislead this man before him, who had come to him out of worry for Sherlock left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Lestrade shrugged and stood up from the chair. “I know, but I can always hope.” He held out a hand to shake and Mycroft was surprised when he was pulled into a half hug by the DI, his large palm clasping around the diplomat’s forearm. “I’m really sorry to hear about your mum,” he said with a sad smile. “I did tell Sherlock, but I’ll tell you as well - if either of you need anything, please don’t hesitate to call me.”

Finding it hard to swallow, Mycroft just nodded. He had no idea when it had happened, but he suddenly seemed inundated with people who cared about him. Caring might not be an advantage, but he had to admit, it made him feel like he belonged.

With a clap to his shoulder, Lestrade was gone, the door clicking softly shut behind him. Mycroft returned to his side of the desk and sank into his chair. Could his life get anymore complicated?

His intercom beeped and Anthea’s voice filled the room. “The US ambassador is on the phone, sir. His delegate for the Anti-Terrorism Conference in Vancouver has just been arrested for ties to a White Supremacy group. I think it’s fair to say he’s in panic mode.”

Oh right, whatever was he thinking? Of course it could. He pressed the button on the phone and said, “Put him through.”

 

 


	68. Chapter 68

True to his word, Mycroft didn’t speak to his brother about Lestrade’s concerns, but over the coming weeks as John and Jonathon’s relationship progressed, he did keep a closer watch on him. Until the DI had raised it, Mycroft had not given much thought to if Sherlock would be adversely affected by the changes. He had been, after all, keen to see the couple together. If anything, the younger man still seemed to hold onto the belief that it was  _ Mycroft _ who would be uncomfortable with the burgeoning romance, since he had a history with Jonathon. But now that the seed was planted, the eldest brother did worry that Sherlock would be made to feel uncomfortable in his own space. 221B was a haven, a place he could be himself and to hide from the world, and to lose that security, to be on edge whilst there would be a disaster. From what he could deduce from his observations, their concerns were unfounded. Sherlock appeared absolutely fine with the developments.

It didn’t take a genius to see that both the doctor and the professor were trying not to rush into anything, and to take things slowly. The unrestrained sexual tension between them set the whole room on edge though, and Mycroft found himself wishing they’d just have a shag and get it over and done with. His prayers were answered when John asked if the brothers could take Rosie overnight the coming Friday, a clear indicator things would be moving to the next level. Mycroft arranged to drop by Baker Street after work to pick up Sherlock and Rosie and so it was that he found himself letting himself in through the front door with his key once his work day was over.

The door to 221A opened and Mrs Hudson peered out at him. “Oh, hello, Mycroft,” she greeted him. 

“Mrs Hudson,” he replied. “Is everything okay?”

She pressed her lips together in a thin line, clearly upset. “John has a... _ gentleman caller _ ,” she said, but it was obvious her distaste wasn’t from the fact he was a man (‘ _ We get all sorts round here’ _ ), but from the man himself.

“Yes, I heard he had a date. Sherlock asked if he could stay the night at my place with Rosamund to give John some privacy. I’ve come to pick them up.”

The old lady huffed. “It’s not natural, Mycroft. How can John not see how wrong it is?”

To anyone else, it would sound like she did indeed have a problem with gay men, but of course, Mycroft knew better. He formed his next words carefully. “Although it  _ is _ a little bizarre that John’s partner bears a close resemblance to my little brother and his best friend, Sherlock and Jonathon are completely different men. He and John have a lot in common, having both seen time in the Middle East and they share many other interests and hobbies as well. I believe we need to try not to judge the book by its cover, Mrs Hudson, but to give it a chance. If Jonathon makes John happy, does it matter what he looks like?”

Despite her clear distress, she did seem to consider this. “I suppose you’re right. Still, I won’t be the only one passing judgement. If it continues, they’re going to have to be prepared for a little backlash from Sherlock’s friends.”

He gave her a smile. “I have no doubt. My brother may be a hard man to get close to, but when he does allow people in, they seem determined to protect him.”

“Yes, well, if they didn't, they’d have  _ you _ to deal with.”

He wasn’t sure how to respond to that, still uncertain as to if the landlady actually liked him or not. It wasn’t that long ago that she was spitting venom at him and demanding he leave. She had seemed to mellow over the past year as she saw that he and Sherlock had grown closer (she just didn't know  _ how _ close), but he still felt he was on unstable ground. “I best be off,” he told her. “I’m sure Rosamund will be getting hungry soon and it’s best not to let her wait for her dinner or she screams the house down.”

Mrs Hudson chuckled. “Yes, she does have a good set of lungs on her. Have a good night, dear.”

He continued up the stairs and found Jonathon sitting on the couch next to John, and Sherlock was in his armchair with Rosie curled on his lap. The child squealed when she saw him and clambered down to run over to him. “Hello, my little menace,” he greeted her, scooping her into his arms. “Are you having a sleepover at my place tonight?”

She grinned and bounced a little in his arms. “Yes! Play piano?”

The last few times she had been over, they had spent a lot of time in the music room and she enjoyed the piano the best. She would watch him play for ages, her eyes wide at the sounds it would produce, and then she would stand up on the stool and tentatively hit the keys to try and copy him. He didn’t think it would be long before he could teach her how to play a few simple tunes - she just needed to wait for her fine motor skills to catch up with her mind. “We can play a little before bed,” he promised. He looked over to the two men on the couch. “Good evening,” he said.

“Hey, Mycroft. Thanks for taking her,” John said as Sherlock stood from his chair and picked up Rosie’s overnight bag, preparing to leave.

“It’s my pleasure,” Mycroft said as Sherlock came and stood next to him, wrapping an arm around his waist and giving him a kiss on the cheek. “We’ll leave you to it then. Have a good night.”

John flushed a little but grinned. “Thanks.” He came up and gave Rosie a kiss goodbye. “You be good for Sherlock and Mycie,” he told her. “I love you.”

“Love you,” she said, pursing her lips for a kiss. He returned it and then ruffled her hair. “See you tomorrow.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything as they left, just smirked at the two men as he led his brother down the stairs. Mycroft’s driver was waiting for them, having just fitted a car seat. He held open the door, and Rosie grinned at the man as he bopped her nose. She was fast becoming used to the government employees that were regularly assigned to Mycroft. 

Once Rosie was strapped in securely, they began to drive towards Pall Mall. There was a darkened divider between the driver and the rear seats and so Mycroft felt comfortable enough to sling an arm over the back of the booster seat so he could curl his fingers around the nape of Sherlock’s neck. His baby brother leant into the touch, humming slightly as he began to smooth circles on the skin with his fingertips. They didn’t speak during the short journey, just listened to Rosie chatter away about one of her dolls, her vocabulary having improved in leaps and bounds recently. 

Once they were home, Mycroft set about preparing them a simple meal of quiche and salad for dinner, whilst Rosie played with some of her toys, and Sherlock did some more research about the area they would be travelling to. He had his laptop open on the table and soon a curious toddler had climbed into his lap. “What’s that?” she asked, pointing to the screen.

“That’s the Athabasca Glacier. Mycie and I are going on a holiday there soon and this is one of the places I want to see.”

“Go away? When?” she asked, a frown on her face.

Mycroft continued to chop up the salad vegetables as he listened to their conversation. “We leave in ten days,” Sherlock told her. 

“Me come,” she demanded.

“Sorry, Rosie, but this is a holiday just for Mycie and I. You have to stay here with your daddy.”

“Want to come, too.”

“I know you want to come, but you can’t.”

“Yes.”

“Sorry, Rosie but no. It’s just Mycie and I.”

“ _ No! _ ,” she almost screamed. “ _ Me come too! _ ” 

“You can’t come,” he repeated.

She started to half cry, half scream, and her little face was scrunched up as tears poured down her face. “ _ NO! Nononononononono!” _

Sherlock’s eyes flicked up to Mycroft’s and he shrugged, just as much at a loss as to what to do about the tantrum that was beginning. His brother’s look turned pleading and he took pity on him, laying down the knife and crossing to the table. “Rosamund,” he said gently but firmly. “You are being quite silly. You can’t come along when we go away and that’s final.”

“Pwease,” she begged, her swollen red eyes looking up at him as she hiccoughed. 

“I’m sorry, but the answer is still no.”

She started screaming in earnest now and climbed down from Sherlock’s lap to throw herself on the floor. Her little fists beat down on the tiles as she made her displeasure extremely vocal. Both men looked at each other and Mycroft internally debated how upset John would get if they drugged his daughter. 

“I think it’s going to be a long night,” Sherlock said with a heavy sigh.

“Indeed. I’ll make sure to serve dinner with some paracetamol for the inevitable headaches.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget, if you're interested in joining a Mylock group on FB, drop me an email at scarletmanuka1@gmail.com and I'll send you an email invite. It's a secret group so no one can see you're part of it, since we all know that 'real' people sometimes don't understand our love for the brothers ;-)


	69. Chapter 69

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's double up Sunday!

Their holiday hadn’t even officially begun yet and Sherlock was exhausted. Mycroft had arranged for an extra couple of days off before they flew out of the country so they could visit Father and Eurus before they left. It was testament to how fiercely his brother felt for his family that he had pushed for the extra time and had left the last minute arrangements for the conference to Anthea. The PA would be accompanying him to Vancouver, along with two other British representatives, so he had delegated what he could to them, and had worked extra hours before they had left.

Looking over at his brother as the helicopter brought them back to the mainland, Sherlock noticed that Mycroft looked just as tired as he felt. They had met their father at the airfield just after lunch so he was unwilling to show much affection in front of the man, but he offered him a small smile. It was returned, and the detective then rested his head back against the seat, looking forward to the ten hour flight just so he could rest.

Rosie had been distraught when they had said their goodbyes and the little girl had clung to both of them, sobbing and pleading with them not to go. Having never before had such a reaction to his impending absence, Sherlock felt a stab of guilt go through him and he tried to sooth the child as much as possible. He wasn’t successful, and neither was Mycroft’s attempts and so the last they had seen of Rosie was her howling against her father’s chest. 

Eurus was of course no where near as emotional about their leaving, but it was clear she was unhappy about not being able to see her brothers for close to a month. She was quiet and almost withdrawn during their visit, and when they all sat in the exercise yard, she allowed Father to pull her into his arms and smiled as he promised he would come and visit every week. It wouldn’t be quite the same, but at least she would have some company. 

They would have tonight and all of tomorrow to spend with Father, and then they would leave before dawn the following day to make it back to London to catch their flight. It was a lot of to-ing and fro-ing, and extra travel, but both brothers thought it was worth it before they left. Since their mother’s unexpected death, they were both conscious about their father’s advanced age and how each time they saw him could very well be their last. 

The helicopter landed and they made their way to where Father had parked his car. Once upon a time the brothers would have argued about who got to sit in the front (actually, if he were completely honest with himself, up until quite recently they would have done that too), but as it was, Sherlock happily climbed into the back without argument. Father pulled out of the carpark and they were soon on the way back to the family home. 

“It’s nice that you’re taking your brother along with you, Myc,” Father said casually, his eyes on the road.

From his position behind him, Sherlock could see the miniscule tightening of his brother’s shoulders at the comment. They were both certain that the old man had figured out the true nature of their relationship but in true British form, no one had been impolite enough to raise it. “Sherlock will make a valuable contribution to the cause,” he said vaguely. The siblings knew this was a complete fabrication - the detective would be contributing  _ nothing _ to the proceedings, unless one included the ones that occurred behind the closed door of their hotel room.

“I saw a bit on the news about the conference,” Father continued, not asking for further details. “It’s only going for a week but you’ll be gone much longer. Are you planning on doing some sightseeing while there?”

“I want to visit a volcano and a glacier,” Sherlock stated. “Apparently Mycroft feels both those things are potentially life threatening and in true, overbearing fashion, he made the decision that I was incapable of managing the tours by myself.”

“To be fair, Sherlock, Myc has a point,” Father said. “You would be the sort to climb to the top of the volcano and peer over the edge to see if any remnants of human sacrifices could be seen.”

“Considering the blast blew out the sides of the cone, it’s not exactly viable for me to do that, hence why we’ll be doing a fly over the top of it in a helicopter.”

“Make sure your brother doesn’t hang out the side of the chopper, would you?” Father asked Mycroft.

“I shall try my best but I am unable to make promises,” the diplomat replied.

“That’s all I can ask for. What else do you have planned on your little jaunt?” 

While Mycroft filled Father in on the details, Sherlock mused over how little he’d commented on the fact they were holidaying together. Of course, it wasn’t unheard of for siblings to travel together, but it  _ was _ unheard of for  _ these _ siblings to travel together, but he seemed to be taking it in his stride. Perhaps in his grief, Father really hadn’t comprehended what he had barged in on by accident after Mummy’s funeral. The more he spoke, the more the detective figured it must be the case. No one could be  _ this _ calm if they had discovered their sons were in a sexual relationship together. The speech he’d given Mycroft afterwards must surely have been a coincidence.

The drive back to their parent’s house took well over an hour and by that time it was getting late. A unanimous decision was made to stop by to grab a bite to eat on the way home and they called in at the village pub. They found an empty booth to sit in and Mycroft took the space next to Father, sitting himself opposite Sherlock. One of his feet curled around his younger brother’s ankles and remained there while they waited for their meals to arrive. It gave Sherlock a strong sense of deja vu from their visit to the establishment the previous Christmas.

It wasn’t an overly busy night so their meals arrived quickly. They made small talk as they ate, Father asking about both their jobs and life in general. “How is young Rosie doing?” he asked as they were finishing up. “I hope she wasn’t too traumatised by what...what happened.” His eyes flooded with grief and he took a moment to compose himself.

“She’s doing fine,” Sherlock assured him. “I haven’t noticed any adverse effects.”

The old man nodded. “Good, that’s good. And what about you boys? How are the broken bones?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest that they hadn’t had any, but Mycroft shook his head slightly - a sign they had to concede the truth. He grudgingly obliged. “I have the odd ache every now and then but I can’t foresee any long term complications,” he admitted.

“I seem to be almost entirely mended as well,” Mycroft added.

“Try not to injure yourselves anymore during your holiday.” Father told them, a wry hint to his voice.

They both swore to try their best and then Sherlock couldn’t contain a yawn. “Pardon me,” he said, covering his mouth. “It’s been a long day.”

“I think that’s a sign we should be off then,” Father told them.

It wasn’t long before they were pulling up outside the house and dragging their suitcases inside. They both had cabin bags with the essentials in them so they didn't have to cart their luggage up to the second floor. As he stowed the large case in an out of the way corner in the living room, Sherlock took in a deep breath, still able to smell traces of Mummy’s perfume in the air. He felt his throat tighten a little as his eyes automatically looked towards the kitchen, unable to dispel the feeling that she would walk out at any moment. He forced his eyes away, knowing that would never happen again.

Father clapped them both on the back and made a shooing gesture upstairs. “Go on, go and get some rest. I’ve made up your room for you so can just fall into bed.”

The younger man felt he could almost sob in relief. The last thing he felt like doing was making up a bed right this moment. They both gave him a hug goodnight, feeling much less self conscious about it now than they would have done before they’d lost a parent. Father clung to Sherlock a little tighter than he would have done before as well, a clear sign he appreciated the gesture.

“I’ll be pottering around for a while down here but I don't think I’ll be too noisy. Sleep well.”

“Goodnight, Father,” Mycroft said, and followed Sherlock up the stairs. 

Once he got to the top of the stairs, Sherlock automatically went to his old room, thinking to drop off his bag before he stole a moment to say goodnight to his brother. He opened the door and frowned as he took in the stripped bed, and dust covers on the bedside tables. He stepped back into the hall and saw that his brother had already gone into his room. “Mycie, didn't Father say he’d made up our rooms?” he called as he walked the few steps down. He looked inside and saw Mycroft popping his bag on the fully made up bed, a slight look of confusion on his face.

“He has,” he said, gesturing at the bed.

“Oh, he must have forgotten to do mine,” Sherlock said, resigning himself to making the bed after all.

Mycroft pursed his lips. “Actually, think back to what Father said,” he urged.

“I already told you he said he’d made them up.”

“No, think again. The exact words, brother mine.”

Sherlock gave him an irritated glance but did as he was told and recalled the moment. “He said  _ ‘I’ve made up your room for you so -’ _ . Oh.” 

“Exactly,” Mycroft said, raising an eyebrow. “Room - singular. He only made up one room because he expects us to sleep in here together.”

His eyes widened. “He does know.”

His brother nodded and crossed to him, taking his hands in his. “And he seems to accept it.”

“How can he, though?”

Mycroft shrugged and leaned in and gave him a kiss. “I don’t know, and to be honest, I’m not going to question our luck. For a relationship that should be so secret, we seem to have a large selection of people who know about us.”

“Only five - well, six now.”

“Yes, but the moment more than you and I knew, it failed to be a secret anymore. We’ve been exceptionally lucky that even if they’ve not all been totally accepting, they’ve not threatened to expose us.” He gave him another kiss. “Let’s not dwell on that now though, and just get some sleep.”

Sherlock nodded, and pulled his pyjamas from his bag. Although their father seemed to know and accept them, he really didn't need to get another eyeful of his naked sons. 

  
  
  



	70. Chapter 70

Sherlock had been dozing restlessly, despite the relative comfort of the first class seat. He’d always had trouble sleeping on planes, most likely because the flights he was used to going on - mainly to Continental Europe - were all so short in duration that as soon as one fell asleep, the plane was landing. They had boarded their flight at 10am London time and due to the time difference and travel time, would land in Vancouver at 11am. Since his relationship with Mycroft had begun, Sherlock had kept to a much more regular sleep pattern, and his body had adjusted accordingly. He knew if he didn’t catch some sleep on the plane, then he’d be horribly jetlagged when they arrived in Canada.

He heard a movement next to him and peeked his eyes open, allowing them to adjust to the dim lights of the cabin. An hour after their meal had been served, the lights had been turned down low and most of the passengers had settled down to sleep. Mycroft was rising from the seat next to him and was making his way forward to the tiny toilet. A glance across the aisle showed Anthea and the two other British diplomats were all sound asleep. On a whim, Sherlock unbuckled his seatbelt and stood to follow on silent steps. Mycroft opened the door, and stepped inside, and Sherlock caught it before it could close. An attendant was in the galley and he looked up as he saw the movement in his peripheral vision. Sherlock winked at him, almost certain the man wouldn’t say anything to the first class passenger, and then pushed inside.

Mycroft had managed to turn around in the cramped space and was looking at his brother in exasperation as he slid the lock home. “Really, Sherlock? How terribly cliche.”

The younger man shrugged nonchalantly. “I couldn’t sleep.” He cast a critical eye over the small space. “I was expecting the first class loos to be a little bit bigger than those in economy.”

It was Mycroft’s turn to shrug. “Sometimes they are, sometimes they aren’t. They do seem to be keep cleaner, and stocked with hand cream.”

“Oh really?” Sherlock said with a grin, searching about until he found the small tube of moisturiser. “Well, that sorts out one problem then.”

His brother shook his head in resignation and then pulled Sherlock in for a kiss, having decided to just go with the flow. As they kissed, one of Sherlock’s hands came down to undo both their trousers and soon their cocks were springing free, rapidly hardening beneath his touch. Mycroft opened the cap of the small tube and squeezed a generous dollop out onto his brother’s palm. “Why thank you, my beautiful assistant.”

The older man chuckled against his lips. “I didn't know this was a magic show.”

“Oh, it is,” Sherlock purred. “I originally had a different trick in mind, but now that I think about it, I’m going to make your cock disappear.” He shoved his trousers all the way down to his ankles, and then twisted an arm behind him, coating his hole with the cream. Once he was done, he smeared the rest of it on Mycroft’s length and then pulled him in for a bruising kiss. Once he let him go, he shuffled about so he was bracing against the wall with his forearms, his legs spread as wide as they could go. He felt the blunt head press against his entrance and he pushed back against it, needing to be filled. Mycroft slowly but inexorably pushed forward and soon he was buried to the hilt. They both gasped a little at the feeling and Sherlock mumbled, somewhat cheesily, “Abracadabra.”

He heard Mycroft snigger behind him and then teeth were grazing over his throat. “And what will your next trick be?” he asked, licking at the spot his teeth had been worrying, while his hand dropped down to begin pumping at the younger man’s cock. “Pulling a rabbit from a hat?”

Sherlock moaned low in his throat, feeling himself so close already. The fact that anyone could be standing right outside, waiting to use the facilities sent a shiver down his spine, and he rocked his hips back against Mycroft. “N….no,” he stammered as he felt his balls begin to tighten. “I think it will be mo...more likely, shooting ribbons from my wand.”

The slender hand around his shaft picked up speed, tightening almost imperceptibly and that was all it took for Sherlock to shoot his load over the plastic walls of the cubicle. His knees wobbled dangerously, but his brother put a hand to his hip to hold him up and he slammed into him again and again. “I do believe that’s my favourite magic trick,” the older man murmured.

“Fuck, Mycie, you feel so good,” Sherlock gasped, and the fingers on his hip dug in so tight that he was sure he’d have crescent shaped marks from Mycroft’s manicured nails afterwards.

Lips found his neck again and bit down just as he felt warmth flood into his passage, and he listened to his brother pant through his orgasm.

Once they both recovered their breaths, they managed to disentangle themselves and clean themselves as best they could in the cramped space. Sherlock wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s neck and gave him a kiss. “Thank you,” he said, punctuating it with another kiss. “I’ll leave you to it now, since I’m sure you want to pee.”

The older man quirked his lips into a smile. “That’s very magnanimous of you.”

Sherlock slipped out of the cubicle, and closed it behind him, noticing the attendant was still in the galley. The man looked at him with a smirk, but held up a bottle of whiskey. “Nightcap?” he asked.

Sherlock just grinned. “That would be lovely.”

“Go back to your seat and I’ll bring them right over,” he told him.

It wasn’t long before Mycroft returned to his own seat and a minute later the steward arrived with their drinks. The diplomat looked slightly confused as the beverage was sat down before him, but didn't say anything. “Just let me know if you need a snack,” the man said, raising his brows at Sherlock. “ Flying can build a bit of an appetite.”

The detective grinned. “Oh, we will. Thank you.”

“Do I want to know?” Mycroft asked as the man walked away.

Sherlock smirked. “Probably not.”

His brother sighed and then lifted his drink to his lips, seeming to decide that ignorance was bliss.

Settling back into his seat, Sherlock hummed to himself, rather pleased with how their holiday had begun. Of course, they still had a week of the pesky conference to go, but then they would be off and about, away from the diplomats and dignitaries that had gathered, the only ones who might know that they were brothers. As soon as they picked up the campervan and headed off into the wilderness, they would simply be one couple amongst many, away on a romantic getaway together. He couldn’t wait.

 

 


	71. Chapter 71

They had landed in Vancouver and after a fast tracked jaunt through customs (one of the benefits of having Diplomatic status), they were on their way to the hotel. Mycroft had made certain that the other diplomats in their party were aware that Sherlock’s flight and accommodation had been paid for from his private account, as he didn't want them getting antsy and believing he was rorting the system. Linda Wallstein had seemed to take him at his word but Tobias Henderson had taken a little more convincing. He was relatively new to the foreign office and although he was aware of Mycroft’s position, he had had little experience working with him. It wouldn’t take long for Mycroft to ensure he knew his place.

They all fit rather comfortably in the large limousine that had been sent to collect them, and whilst Sherlock and Anthea chatted amongst themselves, and Henderson gazed out at the passing cityscape, Wallstein offered her condolences on the loss of their mother. “I understand how hard it is - my own mother passed when I was in my twenties. I’m rather amazed that you felt up for attending the conference. A month isn’t very long to grieve the passing of a parent.” Her hazel eyes were filled with concern, and she seemed filled with genuine compassion. Mycroft had seen her at the negotiating table and knew that this was just one side of her personality - where he was the Iceman, she had been described as the Ice Queen by foreign ministers. He’d always rather admired her.

He gave her a small smile. “Yes, well, you know what it’s like - personal matters always seem to take a backseat. The PM was kind enough to allow me time to go home for the funeral, and I’ve got some extra leave once we’re done here of course.”

She cut eyes to Sherlock and Mycroft didn't miss the slight pupil dilation as she did. She was about the same age as Mycroft and obviously found the detective attractive. If he didn't know how professional she was, he would worry that she would try and make a move. Luckily, the Ice Queen was all work and no play at events like this. “It’s good that you two are taking some time to travel together. You need to stick close to your family at such times.”

He made small hum of agreement. She had no idea just  _ how close _ he would stick to Sherlock during their holiday. “I shall certainly make the most of it.”

The car was pulling up outside of their hotel and it wasn’t long before they were checking into the hotel. They had the rest of the day free of official engagements but the small party had agreed to meet for dinner after they had rested from their flight. They headed up to their rooms, everyone looking forward to a rest. The brothers ostensibly had separate rooms, but Anthea had ensured she had booked rooms with connecting doors. Mycroft rolled his suitcase over to the bed and then crossed to the door and unlocked his side of it. A moment later he heard the catch on the other side release and then Sherlock was pushing into his room. His brother’s arms were instantly around his neck and their lips glued to each other’s, and Mycroft let his hands rest on the small of Sherlock’s back. 

“Longest. Flight. Ever,” Sherlock complained as he pulled back. “I should have jumped you again in the loo. It’s been an age since I got to kiss you last.”

Mycroft chuckled. “You have such little patience, brother mine.”

“Urgh, you were  _ right there _ all that time and I couldn’t  _ touch _ you. How did it not drive you mad as well?”

“But it did - I just have a lifetime of practice at resisting those urges.”

He scowled then so Mycroft wiped it from his face with another kiss. “I hate being reminded of how blind I was to your feelings for all those years,” Sherlock said softly, nuzzling his face into his brother’s throat.

Mycroft stroked up and down the lean planes of Sherlock’s back. “We’ve been over this, love. It wouldn’t have mattered if you  _ had _ seen it - in fact, it probably would have made certain that we never had his. You didn't feel that way about me back then and if you had seen it, then it would have driven you further away.”

“Maybe not. Maybe I would have realised just how much you meant to me?”

The older man pulled back from the embrace just far enough so Sherlock could see his skeptical raised eyebrow. “We both know that is patently untrue, brother mine.”

“Fine,” Sherlock huffed, pulling him back in close. “It still irks me we could’ve have this for longer.”

He said nothing, as there was nothing he could say to change the past. Instead, he sought out those very kissable lips and put them to good use. 

They were both growing hard in their pants from their kisses, and Mycroft nodded towards the bathroom. “Fancy a shower?”

Sherlock grinned and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I  _ always _ fancy showering with you.”

Grabbing his toiletry bag so they wouldn’t have to use the horrid citrus shampoo that seemed to inhabit every hotel room on the planet, he followed his brother into the room. Mycroft grimaced as he saw the shower wasn’t a proper stall but instead was a bath and shower in one. Sherlock didn't seem too phased and was already playing with the taps, trying to find the Goldilocks zone to get the best water temperature. They both undressed and Mycroft gestured for his brother to step in and take the first dip under the water. Once those glorious curls had been flattened against Sherlock’s skull, he climbed in and they maneuvered carefully so Mycroft could stand under the spray. It involved arms about waists and a dance of teeney tiny steps as they inched around in a circle. 

“They don’t design these things for two grown men, do they?” Sherlock muttered as it dawned on him how awkward the shared experience would be.

Mycroft shook his head, and tilted it back to allow the hot water to cascade over his hair. It was bliss and he closed his eyes, just enjoying the warmth of the water. He sensed rather than felt Sherlock stepping up close and then a large palm was wrapping around his semi-hard cock. It only took a few pumps for him to harden all the way, and he reached out blindly to find his own prize. His fingers brushed the satiny smooth skin of Sherlock’s erection and he curled his fingers around it. 

He kept his eyes closed the entire time, not only so the spray from their body wouldn’t blind him, but so he could forget their surroundings and just concentrate on the feel of his brother. He let his head fall forward until it was resting on Sherlock’s shoulder and they shuffled back so the water was hitting both of them enough that neither would get cold. His eyes flew open in shock and he yelped. “Too far, too far!” His arse had hit the shockingly cold tiles.

Sherlock snickered and moved them back an inch, and his other hand moved to cup Mycroft’s arse cheek, the warmth of his palm soothing away the cold. He closed his eyes again and sighed as he felt those clever violinist fingers dance over his cock. He reached down to add his other hand to the fray, one of his hands not quite big enough to wrap entirely around Sherlock’s girth, and wanting his brother to feel entirely surrounded. He heard the hitch in the younger man’s breathing at the sensation and he tightened his grip just a little, loving the feeling of the heated skin moving beneath his hands. 

He darted his tongue out to lick at the base of the perfect neck his face was pressed against, and dropped a little lower to the junction where neck met shoulder. He sucked hard at that spot, aiming to leave a mark of his affection, and he heard Sherlock grunt in his ear. They both seemed to have a bit of a kink for possessive displays and as he sucked even harder, he felt the cock between his hands twitch and then thick fluid was spilling over his grip.

Mycroft let go of the skin with a small  _ pop _ and then opened his eyes, looking up to see the blissed out expression on Sherlock’s face. His brother’s hand had stilled while he rode out his orgasm, but as soon as he had caught his breath, he resumed his strokes. Mycroft lifted his hands and offered two fingers of one to his brother, who willingly sucked them into his mouth, his tongue twirling around them to clean them of his seed. Mycroft sucked clean his other hand, tasting the salty sweetness of his brother. The feel of Sherlock’s tongue on his fingers, and his large hand on his cock, plus the taste of him on his lips had Mycroft gasping. His spine curled as he cried out, his own release spurting between them. 

They shared gentle kisses as they held each other, just enjoying being close. After a while though they broke apart and began the intricate dance that was needed for both of them to be able to have a proper wash. No arse was safe from the wrath of the cold tiles and between them they emitted numerous yelps before they had washed the long flight from their bodies. Afterwards as they stood on the bath mats, drying off, Sherlock glowered at the shower. “That contraption should be ruled a crime against humanity.”

Mycroft chuckled. “I’m sure if it was used as intended, our bottoms would have been spared.”

Sherlock suddenly dropped to his knees and buried his face in Mycroft’s arse. “But I can’t resist this perfect bottom,” he said, pressing a kiss to each rounded globe, and cheekily ran his tongue up the crack. 

Pulling out of his grip, Mycroft swatted him playfully with his towel. “I’m sure the designers didn't have your libido in mind when they were making it.” He pulled him to his feet and kissed the tip of his nose. “Come on, Sherlock. I don’t really want to sleep and get all out of whack, but I think it would be rather nice to just lie in bed with you for a bit.”

Those glorious eyes lit up and he hurried from the bathroom. “Snuggling sounds  _ perfect _ ,” he heard Sherlock say, and then the muffled  _ whump _ as his brother threw himself on the bed. He smiled as he hung his towel up, and then headed towards his snuggle buddy.

  
  
  



	72. Chapter 72

The brothers met the rest of their party in the lobby that evening before seeking out the hotel restaurant for a meal. Sherlock had been loathe to attend, knowing the conversation would revolve around the conference, but Mycroft had asked nicely (he would never admit to  _ pleading _ ) for him to come along. It wasn’t hard for Sherlock to deduce that Mycroft wasn’t happy about how little downtime they would have together over the next week, with functions and engagements stretching late into the night. The conference was an expensive venture and almost every minute of the day was utilised so the diplomats could collaborate as often as possible. This would be the only night that the brothers would be able to eat dinner together, and even if they had company tonight, Mycroft still wanted to spend it with Sherlock.

They were seated and Wallstein pulled out a glossy pamphlet from the information packs about the conference they’d had left for them on their arrival. She began remarking about the various sessions and talks, and she, Henderson and Mycroft began divvying up tasks so they could cover as much as possible. Sherlock tuned them out as he looked over the menu, wishing he was back in his room. He wished Mycroft was back in his room with him as well. He also wished it was next week already so they could begin their holiday. He knew it was pointless making wishes such as those so he turned his attention instead to choosing between the fish and the pasta. 

“Oh, I wasn’t aware of that,” Wallstein said, a frown on her face as something caught her eye in the pamphlet. “Was anyone else aware that there is a masquerade ball on day five?”

Sherlock’s head snapped up at this. “You’re serious? A conference for  _ diplomats  _ which revolves around  _ anti-terrorism _ is hosting a  _ masquerade ball _ ? Have they lost their minds?”

“It does seem to be poorly thought out,” Henderson replied dryly. “And who would have thought to pack a tux?”

Mycroft chuckled. “One should always be prepared for any eventuality.”

The older diplomat looked at him, one of his bushy black eyebrows raised in surprise. “ _ You _ brought a tux all this way?”

“Naturally. It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility for there to be a black tie event.”

“I’ll start shopping for a masque for you,” Anthea told him. “I can get one for everyone since you likely won’t have time for shopping,” she told the diplomats.

Henderson and Wallstein both smiled their thanks, and Sherlock was left shaking his head. How no one could see the potential for disaster was beyond him. A niggle of worry traced its way up his spine, knowing he wouldn’t be there to be on the lookout for danger to keep his brother safe. Also, there was the fact that Mycroft would be dressed in a tux and would be a magnet for every person with functioning eyes and genitals. Anthea caught his eye and she gave him a smile of sympathy, understanding that he must be feeling a little left out of the proceedings. 

The waiter arrived and they placed their orders, and still the talk around him droned on and on about the conference. Sherlock found himself withdrawing further and further into himself, hardly responding at all to Mycroft’s attempts to include him in the conversation. He barely touched his food, and when the small party decided upon dessert, he stood gracefully. “Excuse me, but I’m not feeling the best,” he lied. “I’m going to retire for the night.” He nodded at them all, and ignored meeting Mycroft’s eyes, unwilling to see the hurt he knew would be in them. He knew he would appear rude, and that the other diplomats would surely judge his brother for Sherlock’s behaviour, but he couldn’t stand being in their company a moment longer. He fled up to his hotel room, and locked the door behind him, leaning against it and breathing hard.

Tears sprang to his eyes and he wiped them away angrily. What on earth had gotten into him? He had no idea where this depressive mood had come from - he had been very much enjoying himself earlier in the day. And he wasn’t a child, so why was he acting like one? He had known all along that this first week he would be left very much to his own devices. He had actually been looking forward to being able to do some exploring, and to just lose himself in another city. So why was he suddenly feeling so lonely? From where did the heat of resentment he felt towards his brother spring from? Why the fuck was he suddenly so angry at Mycroft for concentrating on his work? 

Sherlock crossed to the bed and flopped down onto it, not even bothering to turn on the light or remove his clothes. He sniffled quietly, and let himself drift down, finding his way into his mind palace. A peace came over him as he walked through the solid doors at the entry and he took a deep, metaphorical breath as he felt the tension drain away. Here it was just he and himself, a safe place he could examine his feelings and discover the root of his distress. He let his body drift along the corridors at will, not directing himself, just trusting his subconscious would take him where he needed to go.

He shouldn’t have been surprised when he found himself standing outside Mycroft’s door. The light that blazed from beneath it was so bright that it flooded the hallway, filling him with a feeling of warmth and love. He reached up and lay a hand against the wood, seeking comfort from the depth of his feelings for the older man. Although his mind had brought him here, he knew it wasn’t the room he needed to explore. There was a tug to the left and he let his hand drop and turned, moving towards the next door down. 

None of the doors in his mind palace had ever been labelled - he knew from the look of them and the feeling he got when he stood outside just whom they belonged to. So he was shocked to see a name engraved deep into the wood of this door. Once again he reached up and touched the door, allowing his fingers to trace the elegant letters.

_ Mummy _ .

Pain clenched in his chest and even in the safety of his mind palace, he felt the tears streaming down his cheeks. The door swung open of its own accord and he stepped inside, suddenly assaulted by the  _ smellsoundfeelsense  _ of the only woman he had ever truly loved. He sank to his knees, just absorbing the memories of his mother, wishing that he could have just one more day with her. It had been over a month since she had died, but it seemed that he still hadn’t quite accepted that she was gone. He felt a warmth surround him, and he reached out, trying to capture its essence but it seemed to be separate from him, separate from here. 

His whole body shook as he cried, the grief at his loss overwhelming him. He understood suddenly where his melancholy had come from that evening, perhaps spurned on by the physical distance between himself and the place where Mummy had always been. He felt a pang of guilt for leaving, for packing up and flying off for a jaunt with his brother, whilst his father was left to pick up the pieces of his life.

A voice inside his head silenced his thoughts, calmly telling him that he wasn’t selfish, that he and his brother needed this time away, to learn to be without the woman who had raised them. When his mind screamed that they had abandoned their father, it again soothed away his concerns, stating that their father needed his own time to find his way along the new path his life had taken; to find where and how he fit in as a single entity and not as part of a couple. Sherlock clung to the voice, hanging off every word, feeling his guilt and shame ebb away the longer it spoke. The warmth that surrounded him grew and slowly he felt his tears dry, and his whole body began to relax.

His mind retreated from Mummy’s room, with a silent promise to return soon. His mind moved his body down the corridors once again, not taking a certain route, but instead following the voice that still spoke to him. If he listened closely he could hear the words, a declaration of love, being chanted over and over. The further he went, the clearer it became and the warmth surrounding him grew and grew. Then he found himself at the exit and he stepped outside, coming to himself to find his brother wrapped around him, whispering words of love and affection into his ear.

Sherlock let out a small whimper, a sign that he was back in the real world. Mycroft’s arms tightened around him, but neither spoke. Words weren’t necessary when their actions spoke so much louder.


	73. Chapter 73

Mycroft was exhausted. The first day of the conference was finally over and they had jumped right into the deep end, tackling some major issues. It had been a fiftteen hour day with only brief stops for meals. And he wasn’t the only delegate who had left the conference centre with sagging shoulders and a heavy gait. Henderson especially looked weary but since he was a corpulent man, that was to be expected.

They didn’t say much as they stepped into the elevator that would take them up to their floor. Anthea handed out their schedules for the next day, and Mycroft repressed a shudder as he saw he was required from 7am. Looked like it would be directly into the shower and then bed for him. The elevator _dinged_ and they filed out of it, and Mycroft managed to scrape together enough energy to wish everyone goodnight. He stepped into his darkened hotel room and inserted the key into the slot, activating the lights.

The room was empty and he felt his heart sink a little. He had hoped to find his brother waiting for him, but of course Sherlock would be using his brain. The chances of the other diplomats in their party needing to discuss something was high and Sherlock wouldn’t have risked being found asleep in his brother’s bed. He crossed to the connecting door and turned the handle, finding it unlocked - an invitation to come in. He pushed it open and found the room in darkness and he moved on quiet feet over to the bed. There was a little light filtering in through the curtains and it illuminated his brother’s pale face and sharp cheekbones. Sherlock was out like a light, jetlag most likely catching up with him. Mycroft brushed a soft curl back from his forehead and then retreated to his own room to use the shower.

He didn’t spend long in the bathroom, knowing he had such little time to sleep and not wanting to waste any by soaking longer than necessary. He towelled off quickly and then dressed in his satin pyjamas, and then returned to his brother’s room. Sherlock stirred as he climbed under the blankets, and instinctively moved towards him. Mycroft opened his arms and pulled Sherlock into his embrace, nuzzling his face into the soft curls and inhaling the glorious scent of his brother.

“Is it late?” Sherlock mumbled sleepily.

“Yes,” the older man replied. “I’m sorry I woke you - go back to sleep, love.”

Sherlock snuggled in closer and tilted his head to press a kiss to the underside of Mycroft’s chin. “I can sleep anytime, but I don’t get to see you anytime. How was your day?”

“Long. So very long. But it was productive. What about you? What did you get up to today?”

“I just went exploring,” Sherlock told him. He listened as his brother described the places he went and the things he had seen. He felt a pang of regret go through him at not being able to discover those places _with_ him, but knew his chance would come when they set off on their campervan adventure together,

“Sounds like you had a lovely day,” he said as Sherlock finished telling him about the marketplace on Granville Island and the small water taxi he’d taken to get there. “What do you have planned for tomorrow?”

“I’m thinking of taking the ferry across to Vancouver Island and having a look around there. I can either go to Victoria or Nanimo and I’m not sure which one I would prefer.”

“I suppose it depends on which has more to do in a single day - unless of course you plan on spending the night…” He swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. It would make perfect sense for Sherlock to get away for a few days so he wouldn’t be bored, but as selfish as it was for him to even think it, he hoped he would return for the night so they could spend it sleeping in the same bed.

The younger man seemed to read his thoughts and he squeezed him tightly. “I’ll just be gone for the day. There’s a few things I’d love to see around Nanaimo, but there’s more to do in walking distance around Victoria so perhaps I should go there.”

“I’m sure you’ll have an enjoyable time.” He had to bite his lip to hold back on asking Sherlock to wait - to wait for the conference to be over, to wait for him, to wait for them to be able to go there together.

“I’m sure I’ll have more fun than you,” he said around a yawn.

Mycroft reached up and ran a hand lovingly through his brother’s hair and then pressed a kiss to his temple. “Of that I have no doubt. Sleep now, love.”

This time the younger man didn’t protest and he drifted back to sleep easily. Despite how tired he was, it took much longer for sleep to come to Mycroft - his mind was too busy cataloguing the way it felt to have his brother curled in his arms, and the warmth of his breath against his throat. He knew he would need to remember such simple pleasures when his mind would be assaulted with the arguing and negotiating of the next several days.

~~~~~~~~~

Room service delivered breakfast early the next morning, and Mycroft ate alone. Sherlock had already left, wanting to catch the 7am ferry across to the island and so he had kissed the older man goodbye and was gone by half past five. He checked his email as he ate, scrolling through his inbox to check for any matters of urgency. There didn't seem to be any and he was grateful his dedication to upskilling members of his team was paying off. One message caught his eye and he saw it was from his parent’s account. It seemed Father had been getting himself acquainted with the laptop and he was smiling as he opened the mail.

 _Myc,_  

 _I know you’ve not been gone long, but I thought I’d send you this anyway. Your mother’s death has made me realise that we should take nothing for granted and that too often we allow life to get in the way of keeping in touch. I don’t have anything of importance to tell you, no momentous news, or earth shattering gossip - I’m simply saying hello._  

 _I went and visited with your sister today and Governor Dawson allowed us to spend some time outside in the exercise yard. It was a tad nippy, and it started raining right at the end, but we had a lovely time as we watched the gulls soar overhead. Eurus helped me take a photo on my phone and then Sofia helped me attach it to this email. I do hope it has worked._  

_I hope you’re not being worked too hard, and that Sherlock isn’t too bored as he waits for you to finish up with your work. Please pass on my love to him (I know he’ll forget to check his emails while he’s gone so even though I’ve sent him one too, I still need you to be my messenger)._

_T_ _ake care and much love,_

_Father_

Mycroft clicked on the attachment and smiled as a photo of his father and sister appeared on the screen. It was clear that Eurus had been instructing Father, and that the old man had had a little difficulty following along. The angle was crooked and Father had turned his head, probably asking Eurus what he was doing wrong just as the shutter had closed. The expression on his sister’s face was the good natured but slightly frustrated one that most children wore when they were helping their parents with technology. It made Mycroft chuckle out loud and he forwarded the photo to Sherlock’s phone.

_From Father’s visit to Sherrinford - MH_

It was at least fifteen minutes before he got a response and he was in the middle of brushing his teeth when his phone beeped. Holding the brush in his mouth, he thumbed the screen open.

_Sorry, was buying a ticket. If we see each other tonight, perhaps we could take one to send back to him? He could show Eurus when he next visits? - SH_

_I believe that’s an excellent idea. I think he’ll enjoy that - MH_

Mycroft ignored the pang of guilt that shot through him at the phrase ‘ _If we see each other tonight’_ , knowing that he would likely get back to the hotel even later than he had the night before. The chances were slim that they would be in any state to take a photo as he would most probably be sneaking into Sherlock’s bed again whilst he slept. He promised himself that if they didn’t take a photo tonight, he would make sure they did the following morning.

_Try and have a good day - SH_

_Enjoy your day trip. Make sure you take some photos for me so I can live vicariously through you. I love you - MH_

_I shall ensure I am a proper tourist whilst here. I love you too - SH_

Mycroft rinsed his mouth and spat the last of the toothpaste down the drain, then dabbed daintily at his lips with a towel. He looked in the mirror, and as he straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath, he transformed into The Iceman before his eyes.

 

 


	74. Chapter 74

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tend to write places best from personal experience, and so the touristy things Sherlock does - and later does with Mycroft - are mostly all things I've done when I've gone to Canada to visit my Dad. It's absolutely gorgeous and I would recommend it as a holiday destination in a heartbeat.

The taxi dropped Sherlock off at the front of the Tsawwassen terminal and he stepped out into the brisk air. He glanced behind him and saw the rows and rows of cars and trucks lined up, ready to board the ferry, before he joined the orderly queue of foot passengers entering the terminal. He approached the counter and purchased a return ticket, and when he bit off a yawn (apologising profusely) the woman behind the counter waved off his apology and advised him he could get a coffee over at the small marketplace since he had time before they boarded. He nodded his thanks, then followed the signs to the area where he could cross to the low building on the other side of the expanse of bitumen that led to the ferry. His phone chirped as he was crossing and he opened it to find the photo Mycroft had forwarded on. He smiled as he replied, happy that the rest of their family were keeping in touch whilst they were gone.

The market was already bustling with people even though it was so early, the food court doing a busy trade serving up breakfast. The detective ordered a coffee and then wandered about, looking at the shops. It was mostly the normal touristy sorts, and if he’d been so inclined, he could have bought Mycroft any number of moose or maple leaf themed atrocities. As he valued his life, he decided to forego the gift shopping, but he did take a photo of himself wearing a rather terrifying plush moose hat. He decided that if Mycroft wanted tourist photos, he would make sure they were as cringeworthy as possible.

An announcement came over the PA system, advising that boarding would commence soon so Sherlock made his way back over to the terminal proper. He watched as the cars and trucks began to drive on board and started to calculate the weight that was being added. He stopped as it got to uncomfortable figures, deciding he really didn't want to know just how much ballast they would have on board if the ferry decided to sink.

It wasn’t long before the foot passengers were being allowed on and he followed the crowd of people up the ramp, noting how many of them seemed to be heading to the BC capital for work. His ears were filled with the friendly twang of Canadian accents, as conversation swirled on the air around him. It was all so routine, so ordinary for most of his fellow passengers, but for some reason he felt a sudden wave of homesickness for London wash over him as he compared the two places, as he was caught up in the rush of bodies. He missed his bustling city where if something wasn’t in walking distance, it was only a short cab ride away; where people ignored you unless you actively interacted; he missed the familiar red buses and black cabs, the heartbeat of the city.

He found a seat on one of the upper decks, braving the chill of the morning to sit outside. He realised that most of all, he missed his brother. The past several days he had seen so little of Mycroft, and for the majority of that time, they’d had to keep the true nature of their relationship hidden. Although they had to hide most of the time back home, they still had safe places where they could be themselves. And though both worked long hours, neither put in quite as much time as they once had, instead prioritising those precious hours in the evening that they could be together. They didn’t spend all of that time together in bed either - a lot of the time they were doing their own thing, they just did it _together_ \- Mycroft doing some paperwork, Sherlock reading over cold cases, but they would be in the same room and could share the odd touch or kiss without having to worry about being discovered.

The ferry began to move slowly away from port and Sherlock stood to lean against the railing, watching their progression. Once they had moved into relatively open water, he took out his phone and snapped a selfie of himself. He decided to send it to Mycroft immediately and attached the simple caption ‘ _Miss you’_. It was an hour and a half later when they were pulling into the harbour at Victoria that he got a reply.

_I miss you, too. You look sad, Sherlock - please try and enjoy your day. For me? One of us has to have some fun whilst we’re here - MH_

He felt a momentary pang of guilt, knowing that his brother was busy with such important matters and here he was sulking. He decided that he would make every effort to enjoy his day, and he would get photographic evidence to prove it. It was the very least he could do for Mycroft.

He disembarked and then set about exploring the bay, stopping at a Tim Horton’s along the way to get a coffee. He snapped a selfie of himself drinking it in front of The Empress hotel, and once he was finished his caffeinated liquid breakfast, he walked around to view their parliament building. He took photos of the totem poles and the horse drawn carriages, and then made his way down to a marina where numerous houseboats were moored. He saw a group of people peering into the water and when he joined them, he saw there were two seals swimming below, begging for fish with their large, almost cow-like eyes. A van nearby sold fish to tourists and so he bought two and then asked a Japanese family if they would take photos of him feeding them. The teenage boy happily obliged and the detective laughed in delight as the seals snapped the fish from his hands.

He walked back around the bay, stopping in at the wax museum and making sure he took a photo of Churchill and his faithful dog for his brother. He then headed up towards the shopping precinct and asked some of the friendly locals to take photos of him with a giant moose figurine and then one of a bear dressed as a Mountie. He stopped for a late lunch, trying poutine for the first time (he wasn’t a huge fan but he could live with that), and then jumped on a bus and headed for Craigdarroch Castle. The woman who sold him his entry ticket heard his accent and cringed, apologising for what she was sure would be a disappointing castle for the Brit. Sherlock grinned and told her he was sure he would love it, and he did. It was essentially just a very large house but the rich wooden trim and the furnishings reminded him very much of Mycroft’s home. He took a photo of the bear that looked very unimpressed to be a rug on the floor, something that was thankfully missing from his brother’s home.

Once he had finished there, he made his way back to the ferry terminal, ready for the crossing back to the mainland. He had ended up enjoying his day very much and he was glad he had decided not to waste it by allowing his melancholy to take control. His day of sightseeing had left him hungry, and other than the poutine, he’d not actually eaten anything. He decided to brave the cafeteria on board the ferry and found a surprisingly good salad to have for dinner. He followed it up with a cinnamon scroll, and then just sat and watched the water pass them by as they returned.

It was past midnight when Mycroft made it back to the hotel. Sherlock had left the connecting door cracked open and heard his brother come in and make his way to the shower. He climbed out of bed and made his way into the other room, letting himself into the bathroom. He wasn’t quite up for sharing another shower in the horrible bath, so he sat himself down on the closed toilet seat and just kept Mycroft company.

“Did you have fun?” the older man asked, his voice weary.

“I did,” he replied, watching as Mycroft tipped his head back and allowed the water to cascade down over his face. “Do I dare ask how your day was? Since I didn't hear from you since the texts in the morning, I can only assume you didn’t have a spare moment to yourself.”

Mycroft groaned. “No, it was extremely full on. I have a later start tomorrow and don’t have to be there until nine so at least I can have a sleep in.” He shut off the water and accepted the towel Sherlock handed him. “I’m very much looking forward to sharing that sleep in with you if you don’t have any plans as yet?”

The detective shook his head.  “No, I have absolutely nothing planned as yet.”

“Excellent. And did you take lots of photos today as requested?”

“I did indeed.”

“Wonderful. Perhaps you could show them to me once we’re in bed? I need something to cleanse my mind of the topics from today.”

It wasn’t much later that they were sprawled together, giggling over the ridiculousness of a grown man wearing a moose on his head, and the sound of Mycroft’s laughter was music to Sherlock’s ears. It didn’t matter how lonely he felt during the course of this week, he would make sure that Mycroft never knew the truth. Instead, he would do all he could to make sure he put a smile on his lips and distracted him from the grim discussions he was involved in at the conference.

  


 


	75. Chapter 75

Sherlock was having the most wonderful dream. His brother was covering his body in kisses, those lovely long hands were caressing his skin, and his cock was sliding into a tight, wet heat. His hips bucked, thrusting him deeper, and a low moan sounded in his ear. It was the moan that pulled him from his dream and into reality, and as he came fully awake, he realised that most, if not all, of his dream was actually happening.

Mycroft was nestled against him, his back pressed against Sherlock’s chest and one leg bent and slung over Sherlock’s hip, opening himself up. The younger man’s rock hard cock was already buried halfway into Mycroft’s arse, and his brother was pushing backwards, seeking an even deeper penetration. 

“Good morning,” Mycroft greeted him, looking over his shoulder with a grin.

Sherlock ran a hand lovingly down Mycroft’s arm until it rested on his hip, giving him purchase to grind them closer together. “Fuck, I love it when you wake me up with sex,” he gasped, feeling his prick slide the rest of the way inside his brother.

“Why do you think I did it?” came the breathy reply. “You’re always telling me it’s one of your favourite things in the world.”

“How could it not be? It’s like waking up in heaven!”

Mycroft chuckled and clenched the walls of his passage together. “That’s being generous, I’m sure.”

Sherlock ran a hand up to Mycroft’s chest and pinched gently at one of his nipples, and lay open mouthed kisses to his shoulder. “Not in the least. If I got to spend my afterlife doing this, I would die a happy man.”

“Well just in case there isn’t an afterlife, how about we make sure you get your fill of it before you drop off the perch?”

Sherlock rolled them so he had Mycroft pinned to the bed, mouthing at the nape of his neck as he rocked his hips. “You’re always full of good ideas,” he remarked.

“Well, I am full of you,” Mycroft quipped.

“True.”

Sherlock hitched his legs up so he was kneeling on either side of Mycroft’s hips. He grabbed two handfuls of the gorgeous arse that was in front of him and held onto it as he rode it. His brother was so tight and hot and it wasn’t long before he couldn’t hold back any longer. He grunted as his release shot deep inside of Mycroft, holding his pelvis tight against Mycroft’s arse.  

As soon as his waves of pleasure died away, he slipped himself out and then urged Mycroft to roll over onto his back. He licked a stripe up his lovely cock from root to tip and then began to suck on him in earnest. He felt fingers tangle in his hair and he reached up and pushed on one of the hands, silently asking for his brother to use his mouth however he pleased. Mycroft immediately tightened his grip and began to thrust upwards into Sherlock’s willing mouth, not going too deep so as to choke him, but going deep enough that he could taste the salty essence at the very back of his throat. Sherlock moaned around the feeling, and reached up to roll and play with the heavy balls hanging low between the older man’s legs. Mycroft began to speed up his thrusts and then he was coming, spurting over Sherlock’s tongue. The detective swallowed it all down, the gasps of pleasure from above sounding like music to his ears.

They didn’t get to cuddle for long afterwards as Mycroft had to be up and about. He’d ordered in room service and they ate together in Mycroft’s room, sitting on the bed that had still yet to be slept in. Much too soon for his liking, the older man was pulling Sherlock into an embrace, kissing him soundly, and bidding him farewell. The silence as the door swung shut behind him was deafening, and he stood and made his way slowly back to his own room, throwing himself on the bed and inhaling the smell of Mycroft’s cologne from the pillow.

There was a knock at the door, and he groaned before dragging himself up. He looked through the peephole and saw Anthea standing there, a garment bag in one hand and a box in the other. He opened the door and ignored the smirk she gave him as she stepped inside. He realised he must still look rather shagged out. “Anthea, to what do I owe this pleasure? Do you need to gain access to Mycroft’s room?” He gestured at the bag.

“Oh no, this is for you.” She handed it over with a Mona Lisa smile.

He frowned as he took the bag, unzipping it several inches to reveal the tux inside. He raised an eyebrow. “What’s this?”

“Your outfit for the ball of course.”

“Have you sustained a head injury? I do not have an invite to the ball as it’s for delegates only.”

Anthea pulled a piece of embossed card from her pocket and waved it in front of his face. “There’s  _ always _ spare tickets floating around to these kind of events if you know the right people. Local politicians and dignitaries are always invited as well and they have their own lackeys to bring and well, not all of them want to go.”

“I’m rather certain Wallstein and Henderson will be most put out if they see me there - Henderson especially. The man seems to be suspicious of everyone and he’ll jump right on Mycroft if he thinks I’m getting special treatment because of my brother’s position.”

Anthea shook her head and he got the distinct impression she was judging him for his lack of imagination. She took back the garment bag and thrust the box into his hands. “Forgetting something?”

He pulled off the lid and lifted the soft tissue paper to reveal a beautifully crafted masque. He pulled it from its wrappings and put the box down onto the bed so he could trace a fingertip over the exquisite design. “It’s beautiful,” he murmured.

“That’s because I have excellent taste. Also, it has the added benefit of hiding your face. As long as you don’t speak directly to them, I doubt Wallstein and Henderson will notice.”

He considered this and then shook his head. “This will only cover my face - in case you’ve not realised, my hair is rather memorable. They’ll recognise me in an instant.”

The PA smirked again and if she wasn’t going out of her way to help him spend a night with Mycroft, he would have found it more than a little annoying. She opened her handbag and pulled out two small boxes and handed then over. “Hair dye?” he asked.

“Lightening creme to change your hair colour for the night - I rather think it’ll turn it a lovely strawberry blonde - and then a black dye to change it back so they never know the difference.”

He looked up at her, incredulous. “Why?”

“Why what?” she asked. “Go to all this trouble?” He nodded. “Oh, Sherlock. Both you and Mycroft are miserable. You’re on the other side of the world together but you can’t actually  _ be _ together. I hate seeing you both like this and really? Snagging an extra ticket and helping you disguise yourself so no one recognises the sexy beast sweeping Mycroft off his feet is no hardship for me. I just want to see you both happy.”

He suddenly found it very hard to breathe, and to speak, but Anthea seemed to understand. She gave him a moment to recover by going to the wardrobe and hanging up the bag, and then she packed the masque away in its box and placed it in the bottom of the wardrobe. 

“Shall we be really evil and not tell Mycroft beforehand?” she asked brightly.

Sherlock barked out a laugh. “Oh, that is truly devilish! Perhaps it  _ would _ be good to surprise him…”

“I rather think so. He’ll be going down for the pre-drinks so I’ll come and help you with your hair if you’d like?”

“Won’t you need to get ready yourself?”

“If working for your brother has taught me anything, it’s how to look put together in an instant. It’ll take me far less time to dress than it will you, I guarantee.”

He suddenly felt a lot happier. “Thank you, Anthea. I mean that -  _ thank you _ .”

She gave his arm a squeeze. “Anytime, Sherlock. “I’ve got to dash since I’ll be needed down there soon, but I’ll speak to you on Friday morning to arrange a time for me to come up here.”

He saw her out and then he crossed back to the bed. He threw himself back onto it, but this time he was grinning. He had never looked so forward to a ball in his life.

 


	76. Chapter 76

There was a definite air of excitement about the gathered delegates as they finished up on Friday afternoon. Mycroft was put rather in mind of a bunch of high school students excited for a school dance, except these were all adults who most likely had attended numerous of these sorts of functions in the past. He didn't quite understand what they were all so giddy about, and knew he would have a hard time enjoying himself. If he could have taken a plus one, and could have Sherlock by his side - even if they had to act platonic all evening - then he thought he could find some measure of enjoyment, but as it stood, the sooner it was over, the better.

His brother had gone exploring once again around the city that day so he was pleasantly surprised to find him waiting in the hotel room when he got back to change. The lanky genius was sprawled appealingly in one of the plush armchairs, a brochure in his hand, and a pale slither of skin peeking temptingly out from where his shirt had ridden up. He glanced up and smiled as the older man closed the door behind him. “Thought I’d try and catch you between your wardrobe changes,” he quipped.

Mycroft undid his jacket, slinging it over the bed, then crossed to the chair and climbed up onto Sherlock’s lap. His brother scooted up a little so they would be more comfortable and his arms wound their way around Mycroft’s waist, cupping his arse. “I’m so glad you did,” he murmured, before giving those plush lips a well deserved kiss. “I wish I could stay here all night with you but I’ll be expected downstairs shortly.”

“One more day,” Sherlock breathed. “You only have one more day and then the next two weeks are all ours.”

He pressed their foreheads together, closed his eyes, and just concentrated for a moment on the sound of their breathing. “I cannot wait. Truly, Sherlock, just to be able to spend time alone with you, doing something as ordinary as driving, will make me so happy.”

“Does that mean that when I’m making love to you under the stars in some out of the way national park, you’ll be ecstatic?” Sherlock rumbled in his ear.

“It depends I suppose.”

“On what?”

“On whether you survey me before or after frostbite has destroyed my nether regions.”

“Oh, I’m sure I can think of  _ some way _ to keep your nether regions nice and warm.”

“I certainly hope so. Autumn is quickly passing and we’ll be travelling through a mountainous area - it’s going to be  _ very _ cold overnight.” 

“I can be very creative. I am a genius after all.”

He sighed and then pressed a quick kiss to Sherlock’s lips. “As much as I’d enjoy nothing more than staying in your embrace and discussing inventive ways to keep my genitals from being frozen off, I really must get ready for tonight.”

Sherlock allowed him up with only one more kiss shared between them, and Mycroft made his way to the bathroom to shower and shave. Once he was done, he was pleased to find that his brother wished to help him dress. He stood still as the younger man indulgently did up his buttons and slid his sleeve garters up his arms, then deftly tied the black silk of his bow tie. “Try not to break too many hearts tonight,” Sherlock murmured as he stepped back to survey his handiwork. 

Mycroft grimaced as he tucked in his tails and reached for his jacket. “No risk of that happening, I’m afraid. People’s heads turn towards me when I’m with you. Without you by my side I am essentially invisible.”

His jaw was grabbed rather roughly and his head was forced around until he was facing Sherlock’s glorious eyes. “We have had this discussion, brother mine,” he growled. “You are sexy as fuck, Mycie and I will not have you saying otherwise.”

He chuckled and pulled Sherlock into a crushing hug, not caring that his tuxedo would likely become wrinkled. “Only to you, Sherlock, but you are the only one in the world I wish to appear that way to. Besides -” he picked up the ornate masque from where it sat on the side table, “- once the festivities have begun, I shall become one of the faceless masses.”

“And for that, I am grateful - it will mean fewer people fawning over you.”

Mycroft shook his head with a smile and moved about the room, fetching his wallet and phone, and slipping into his Oxfords. Once he was ready, he shared one last kiss with Sherlock. “I hope not to be late. Will you be here when I get back?”

“I’m planning on catching a show tonight downtown but I think I’ll be back about the same time as you.”

He nodded and gave a little smile. “Have fun. I love you.”

“I love you too, Mycie. Always.”

His feet were heavy as he left the room, his hesitance to attend the function without his brother making him dawdle. He eventually arrived in the reception area outside of the waterfront ballroom and seamlessly melted into the crowd that was already enjoying cocktails and champagne. He exchanged pleasantries with various dignitaries, and kept an eye out for Wallstein and Henderson, having agreed to meet them here. This first hour was reserved for business, another opportunity to network. No one had covered their faces, all were who they appeared to be. Once the ball began, it would be a signal that the festivities had commenced and people could just let their hair down. They would be disguised behind their masques and no diplomat worth their salt would negotiate with a faceless opponent.

His colleagues soon tracked him down and he forced himself to concentrate as they were bombarded by diplomat after diplomat seeking agreements. Mostly it was just formalising arrangements to begin discussions between their countries at a later date, and he wished Anthea was here with them. His PA had been late leaving the convention due to a change to the scheduling for the final day, and she had told him she would meet him once the ball officially began. He knew he would remember everything that was discussed but as he was hoping to begin his holiday as soon as they had finished up, he had hoped that Anthea would be there to record everything. He trusted her much more than he trusted Wallstein or Henderson. 

The hour came to an end and a gong sounded through the room, before the large double doors to the ballroom swung open. Two attendants stood to either side to check the attendees, and one announced that they could enter whenever they wished. Faces were covered, the crowd began to shuffle inside, invitations at the ready, and there were  _ oohs  _ and  _ ahhhs _ as people took in the opulence. Mycroft tied on his own extravagant masque - Anthea had outdone herself finding it - and, ignoring the finery, headed straight for the bar, needing a drink. 

He moved away from the bar, sipping his whiskey as he observed the room. The far end was set up with round tables where the meal would be served, the centre of the room contained a dance floor, and then this end of the room had several high cocktail tables and low, comfortable couches around the walls. He saw Wallstein and Henderson across the room (she easily recognisable from the dress she was wearing, and he from his sheer girth), but he didn’t feel compelled to seek their company. There was only one person whom he wished to be with right now and he was currently enjoying his own night out on the town. 

He dropped his eyes down to his glass as he swirled the amber liquid around. One more day, as Sherlock said. Only one more day after this and then they could begin their holiday together. He was looking forward to it more than he’d ever looked forward to anything. To have his beautiful brother at his side, but not as his brother - as his lover, partner,  _ everything _ . To let go of all their responsibilities, to leave the suits behind, to be on the open road and to drive where they wanted, stop when they wanted, explore all they wanted. One more day of drudgery and diplomacy and then all that awaited him.

He felt the presence at his side before he saw it, and looked up to see a tall man standing beside him. He allowed his eyes to widen beneath the masque as he took in the familiar stance, the tapered waist, the delectable neck. How? How was this possible? The man reached out and lay a hand that Mycroft would know anywhere on his hip. “Sherlock?” 

 


	77. Chapter 77

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today is Double Post Sunday, or Saturday depending on where you are in the world!

As soon as the door had swung shut behind his brother, Sherlock was on his feet and moving to his own room. A minute or two later there was a knock at the door and he let Anthea inside. 

“Right, let’s get this party started,” she said in her normal businesslike tone, though there was a sparkle in her eyes. “In the bathroom, now. Take your shirt off, pop a towel around your shoulders, and sit down so I can reach your head.”

He nodded, and only feeling a little self conscious, did as instructed. Anthea stood at the small basin and prepared the lightening creme, snipping a corner off a foil packet and pouring a powder into a liquid that was inside an applicator bottle. She shook it vigorously as Sherlock sat himself on the side of the bath, his legs inside the tub and his back facing outwards. 

She put on the plastic gloves that came with the creme and turned to the detective. “Ready?” He nodded and she began to pour the creme onto his head. A strong chemical smell overpowered them and both began coughing. “Fuck, sorry, I forgot about the fumes,” Anthea said, reaching out to hit the button for the exhaust fan. “Probably not the best space to be doing this in. Did you want to move to the main room?”

“And have it stink like this?” he asked, his eyes watering. “No, I think I’ll manage.” She nodded and continued to apply the solution, rubbing it into his curls and then combing it through to make sure the parts underneath were covered. “Erm, should it kind of burn like that?” he asked hesitantly.

“How much is it burning?”

“It’s very warm.”

“Is it painful?”

“No, just odd.”

“Then it’s fine. We’ve just covered your head with what is essentially peroxide, Sherlock. It’s not going to feel like you’re being tickled.”

He glared at her over his shoulder, but let the matter drop. Why people felt the need to do this to themselves on a regular basis, he had no idea. “How long do we leave it on?”

“It shouldn’t take long - maybe twenty minutes? It’ll depend on how the colour changes.”

The exhaust fan removed most of the choking fumes so they remained in the bathroom as the creme did its job. Periodically, Anthea would wipe away a lock of hair and they would see what shade it was. When it was light enough to disguise him, but not light enough to turn his hair into straw, she pulled off the gloves and popped them in the bin. “Right, I think you’re good to go. You’ll want to give your hair a good long rinse to make sure all the chemicals are out, and then make sure you use a good conditioner.”

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure, Sherlock. I’m going to go and get ready now myself so I’ll see you down there.”

He gave her a smile and a nod and then she was gone, so he stripped off the rest of the way and eagerly jumped under the shower, wanting the horrid stuff off his head as soon as possible. He followed her instructions and when he had finished his shower, was amazed at the difference the new colour made. He looked much younger (which wouldn’t please Mycroft as he was already concerned about their age gap), and his eyes ran more to green than blue. The black hair dye was in the cabinet so he knew it was just for one night, so he didn't give it much more thought than that.

Sherlock dressed in his tux and then made sure to don his masque before he left the room. The invitation was in his pocket and he hoped that they wouldn’t suspect he wasn’t meant to be there and escort him out. The last thing he wanted to do was embarrass his brother. 

He made his way downstairs and into the convention centre proper, heading for the ball room. He assumed an air of importance and handed over his invitation, and he was shown in without question. He walked into the room with a feral grin on his face, eager to find his brother and surprise him. He scanned the room, knowing that Mycroft would have shunned company and would be by himself. He spotted the lone figure a short distance from the bar and headed for him, circling the room so he wouldn’t come up directly in front of him. 

It only took the older man an instant to recognise him - he hadn’t expected any less. They knew each other more intimately than anyone could know anyone, and a masque and a change of hair colour wouldn’t change that. Instantly Mycroft’s demeanour relaxed, and Sherlock reached out and placed a hand on his hip.

“Sherlock?”

“Who else? I couldn’t have you turning into a pumpkin come midnight, could I?” He kept it playful, not wanting to bring up what had happened at the last function Mycroft had attended without him.

His brother smiled, and then did something that completely and utterly shocked Sherlock down to his very core.

Mycroft reached out and took his hand.

 


	78. Chapter 78

They were disguised and Sherlock wasn’t even meant to be there, so Mycroft threw caution to the wind and clasped his hand with his brother’s. “You have no idea how happy I am to have you appear like this,” he said, his voice heavy with emotion.

“You have Anthea to thank for it - she’s the one who had access to the black market sales of spare tickets.”

He laughed, not at all surprised by her cunning. “When we find her tonight, I might surprise her by giving her a hug.”

“Careful - don’t want her dying of shock.”

“True - good help is hard to find and it would be highly inconvenient to find a replacement. Perhaps I shall settle for a highly flourished compliment.”

“Probably safer,” Sherlock agreed. The younger man stepped just that little bit closer so they were well and truly in each other’s personal space. “Is it odd that for the past year I’ve not given a thought to how taboo our relationship is but here, tonight, it feels like a constant presence at my back?”

He gave his head a small shake. “Not at all. I too feel as if every eye is on us, waiting to reveal us.”

Sherlock’s perfect cupid’s bow - the only part of his face that was on show - stretched into a grin. “It’s a little bit exciting, isn’t it?”

He laughed again and gave the hand he was still holding a squeeze. “I must admit that my adrenaline levels are slightly elevated.”

“How about I get them truly pumping then?”

“Oh? And how do you propose to do that?”

“By doing this of course.” Sherlock leaned in and brushed their lips together and it was one of the most electrifying kisses they had ever shared.

Mycroft’s heart thudded in his chest and his breaths came in short gasps as they broke apart. His eyes instantly flew to the guests nearest them but absolutely nobody was paying them any attention. It appeared they really were invisible. “Sherlock,” he said in a breathy voice, and pulled his brother close so he could kiss him again. It was more heated this time, but not vulgar - their tongues unfortunately stayed in their own mouths. He felt so utterly happy he thought it possible he might cry. He didn't think he’d ever be in a position where he would want to cry from sheer happiness, but then again, he never thought he’d ever be in a position to kiss his brother publicly, either. This must be what it felt like for everyone else on the planet, to be able to openly display their affection. If only they weren’t hiding behind jewelled disguises, if only they could openly declare their love.

He pulled back when he heard a polite cough from beside them and looked over to see Anthea standing there. She looked like a million dollars in a long, red gown that flared out behind her as she moved. Her hair was twisted into an elegant knot and her masque was adorned with ruby red gems to match her dress. How she walked in the stiletto heels she was wearing, neither man would ever know, but she did so with grace. “Having fun?” she asked brightly.

Sherlock grinned and Mycroft felt an answering one on his own lips. “Anthea, you have no idea how much I appreciate this,” he told her. “You have made my night.”

“Oh, that’s okay, sir. I couldn’t have you moping around the entire evening could I?”

“I can guarantee there shall be no moping tonight,” he agreed.

“I’m not going to keep you since I know you’ll both want to enjoy the time you have to yourselves, I just wanted to make sure you’d found each other.”

“Thank you, Anthea. And I do hope you have an enjoyable evening as well.”

“Oh, I’m dressed to kill and there’s a dance floor - I will be making the most of the night, believe me.”

They watched as she turned with a swirl and made her way towards the dance floor that was slowly filling with people. Mycroft knew there would be a trail of broken hearts in her wake by the end of the night. He turned back to his brother and noticed he didn’t yet have a drink. “How about we head to the bar and get some champagne? I feel like tonight we should celebrate.”

Sherlock darted forwards and kissed him again, seeming unable to get enough. “Sounds great,” he murmured.

They made their way to the bar and got their drinks, and then moved to one of the couches that lined the walls, finding one in the back corner away from everyone. They sat and Mycroft reached up to run a hand through his brother’s curls. “I’m not sure if I like this or not,” he admitted. “Though I probably can’t pass judgement until I get to see it without this in the way.” He trailed a finger down the delicate masque.

“Both Anthea and I agreed my hair would probably lead to my being identified. As it is, it’s a risk, but I’m feeling careless tonight so I’m willing to take it.”

“We’ll have to hide you from the others until they’ve returned to England.”

“No, that won’t be a problem - I have dye to get it back to my natural colour.”

He smiled in amazement at how much effort his brother was willing to put in to allow them this one night together. “I love you so much, Sherlock. I hope you know just how much.”

His brother brought his hand up to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss to the back of it. “And I love you, Mycie. With all of the heart you gave me.”

He shook his head. “Oh, Sherlock - you’ve always had a heart, you just didn't always know how to find it. Just how I’ve always had one too, it just took your love to melt the ice around it.”

“Honestly, one glass of bubbly and we’re waxing lyrical like love struck school boys.” Sherlock smirked, but squeezed Mycroft’s hand so he knew he really didn’t mind that much.

“Yes, well, people do odd things when they’re in love.” Mycroft commented.

“I can’t deny that.”

“Would you like to dance?” he offered, watching as across the room people had partnered up and were spinning around the dance floor.

“I would, but not just yet,” Sherlock replied. “I have you all to myself in this dark little corner, and I think I’d like to keep possession of it just a little bit longer.”

“Even though we can do nothing more than sit and share the odd, chaste kiss?”

“Oh, Mycie - that sounds like the perfect way to spend an evening with you. Just the fact that we can be here, together, like this, in public...it means so much to me.” The older man could just make out those beautiful blue-green eyes through the holes in the masque and he could see they were glittering with unshed tears. Who would ever have thought that either of them would turn out to be such emotional creatures? Perhaps it had just taken a forbidden love to reveal their true selves?

“I shall sit here for the entire evening if that’s what you want, Sherlock. My only wish is to be with you.”

“Oh, I have plans for the rest of the evening - and a dance is just one of those plans.”

His noticed instantly the sexy purr in Sherlock’s voice. “Oh? That sounds intriguing.”

“I can assure you it is, but I think I shall leave you guessing for what those plans are.” His grin was pure sex and Mycroft felt his trousers get noticeably tighter.

“Sherlock, my love, as always - I leave myself entirely in your very capable hands.”


	79. Chapter 79

They weren’t the only same sex couple dancing together, and for that Sherlock was grateful. The conference had delegates from all over the world and he was more than aware that their preference was frowned upon, or even outlawed in many of their countries. The fact that they were in Canada - a country that embraced and celebrated their differences (well, _most_ of them anyway) - seemed to be enough to hold any outward judgment at bay, and the fact they were two men was thankfully overlooked. Any attention drawn to them would only increase the chances of their identities being exposed.

They had crossed paths with Henderson as he spun past, deft on his feet for such a large man. The drinks he’d had seemed to have relaxed his staunch demeanor, and he made a quip about Mycroft getting lucky as they twirled away from him. Sherlock had hidden what little of his face that could be seen in his brother’s neck, not wanting to make it any easier for the diplomat to recognise him. Mycroft had simply agreed with the man, and then the direction of the dance had them moving to opposite corners and the two brothers could breathe easier again.

“I don’t even think I was this rattled the entire time I was away closing down Moriarty’s web,” Sherlock admitted.

“No,” Mycroft agreed. “It does seem a lot more nerve wracking than any undercover work I’ve ever undertaken.”

“I’d do it all again if it meant I could dance with you,” the detective murmured.

Mycroft grinned at him, and the sight simply took Sherlock’s breath away. He would never get over how carefree and happy his brother could appear at times, and since the only times he did were a direct result of _Sherlock_ , it made a deep joy begin to bubble up inside him. The lanky detective still couldn’t quite believe that he had found someone who he would love for the rest of his days, but he was glad he had developed enough emotionally to embrace it, and not push it away.

The song changed and the next one was a much slower tempo. The singles on the floor seemed to melt away, but the ones that had paired off dropped the speed and began to slow dance. Mycroft’s strong arms held Sherlock close and he rested his head against his brother’s chest; he was unable to hear the heartbeat beneath his ear over the music, but he could see the pulse fluttering in his delicate throat. He felt almost giddy at the novelty of being able to be this close to Mycroft in public, and knowing that it wouldn’t occur again soon, he vowed to make the most of it and cherish every second.

Slender fingers moved almost constantly across the fabric of Sherlock’s tux and his own fingers mimicked the dance, tracing their way over his brother’s back as well. The heady feeling of their exhibitionalism, the spicy scent of Mycroft’s cologne, the movement of his hands - combined it was too powerful an aphrodisiac and Sherlock’s cock began to plump in his trousers. He suddenly had an urgent need to be _anywhere_ but here. He stepped back from Mycroft and took his hand.

“What are you doing?” Mycroft asked him, one eyebrow raised in anticipation.

It was Sherlock’s turn to grin. “Oh I’m almost certain that in this giant husk of a building there will be a quiet, out of the way place I can ravish you. How about we go and find it?”

Mycroft swallowed visibly and nodded, happy to be led off the dancefloor. They moved out of the ballroom and into the foyer, and the detective spied a first aid room across the way. They moved towards it purposefully, both knowing exactly how to make themselves invisible by looking like they belonged. There were several people milling about in the foyer, but no one gave them a second look. They had just reached the door when Sherlock looked over and spied Henderson coming out of the ballroom. He felt a sense of urgency now and hustled Mycroft inside, closing the door behind them. The diplomat seemed to have no trouble recognising Mycroft - Anthea had gotten all of their masques at the same place and they were very similar - so they couldn’t risk him spying them.

The sound of the ball was cut off as the door closed and suddenly they were encased in silence. They both pushed their masques up and off, laying them on the examination trolley, and then they fell into each other’s arms, lips seeking out the other’s, hands roaming, touching. Sherlock made fast work of his brother’s zip and then he was dropping to his knees, working the rapidly hardening cock out of its confines, and rubbing his cheek over it. “You are so fucking sexy,” he moaned in a breathy voice, gazing up at the older man.

Mycroft smiled down at him and cupped his face with one hand, rubbing his thumb over Sherlock’s cheekbone. “As are you. The sight of you on your knees before me - it’s the most erotic vision I have ever seen. I shall never become accustomed to seeing it.”

He arched a brow. “Perhaps I shall have to experiment then. Surely if I do it enough, you would become used to seeing me here.”

“No, I highly doubt that.”

“Well,” he replied with a smirk, “I guess we shall see about that.”

“I very much look forward to being your test subject,” Mycroft retorted.

With one final, predatory grin, Sherlock lowered his mouth and sucked at the head of Mycroft’s cock. His brother had been leaking pre-come already and he sucked it down greedily, loving the unique taste of the older man. He then took the shaft as deep as he could, not managing to deepthroat him from this angle, but getting close to it. He could feel the saliva dripping down his chin but he ignored it, not caring if he ruined his tux, only caring about bringing as much pleasure as possible to his brother.

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mycroft whispered above him. “Your mouth feels so fucking good on my cock.”

Sherlock moaned, feeling his own cock swell even more at hearing such words from his brother’s prim and proper mouth. He pulled off for a moment and looked up with big eyes. “More, please. Tell me more.”

“You enjoy me talking dirty, do you?” Mycroft asked in a purr. In response, Sherlock just replaced his mouth and laved at his slit. “Why don’t I tell you then what I plan on doing to you tonight when we’re back in our hotel room? I’m going to make you strip, then I’m going to use your underwear as a gag and shove them in your mouth, and your jacket as rope, and I’ll tie your arms behind your back so you can’t move, can’t speak, just feel. Then I’m going to touch you all over, but I’m not going to use anything boring like my hands or my mouth, oh no, I’m going to drag my leaking cock all over your body, smear my fluids across your chest, over your nipples, into the dips of your hip bones, down over your thighs, and knees. Then, _then_ , I’ll use my mouth - I’ll lick over every place I touched, cleaning myself off you, working my way up to your lips so you can suck my tongue into your mouth and taste me as well.”

Sherlock moaned again at the thought of such things, feeling a tingling in his balls as the words washed over him. Mycroft’s cock was pulsing out salty liquid almost constantly now and he knew he must be close.

“By this point, if you could talk, you’d be begging to have my fat cock in your arse so I’d lube us up and hook your legs over my shoulders and slide inside you, all the way in so you’d be absolutely full. I can picture it perfectly, looking down and seeing my prick sliding in and out of your tight little hole. If I pulled out I’d be able to watch it fluttering, wanting to be filled again, longing for my cock. You always long for my cock, don’t you, baby brother?”

Sherlock was almost sobbing with need now, wanting so much what Mycroft was describing.

“I’d push my way back into your greedy hole, and pound away. Can you imagine the sounds we would make, as our bodies slap against each other?” His voice was starting to falter now as his orgasm fast approached. “I’d be so deep inside you, my love, and you could do nothing but feel, tied and gagged. You would be completely at my mercy as I fucked you as hard as I wanted, as I filled you compl -” He didn't finish his sentence as his whole body shuddered as he shot hot semen down the back of Sherlock’s throat.

As soon as he felt the first spurts hit his tongue, Sherlock’s whole body convulsed as he orgasmed untouched. He swallowed his brother’s release down as he shook and shuddered, and then he was being pulled up to his feet and Mycroft’s tongue was invading his mouth, chasing a taste of himself. “Fuck, Mycie,” he said as he pulled away to catch his breath. “ _You_ are the sexy one!”

Mycroft chuckled. “If I’m not mistaken, you just came in your pants, just from the sound of my voice - I believe _that_ if the definition of sexy.”

“Considering you’re Wikipedia personified, I guess I shall have to take your word for it.”

Sherlock unzipped his trousers, pulled them off, and then his soiled underwear, before putting them back on. He didn't care if he went commando for the rest of the night, but it was better than being in a sticky, congealing mess. He held them up, a silent question in his eyes.

“A gift for me? How very kind,” Mycroft replied, laughing. He took them from Sherlock and stuffed them into his pocket. That act alone made Sherlock almost come again.

The young detective went to speak, but was cut off by the unmistakable sound of automatic gunfire. Mycroft immediately sprung into action, pulling him down to the safety of the floor, and they shuffled as far back into the room as possible. More gunfire sounded from outside, this time accompanied by screams. Their eyes met, and Sherlock asked pointlessly, “What the fuck is that?”

The diplomat’s ice blue eyes met his. “Trouble,” he replied.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Squee! Tikatikox made some amazing art inspired by this chapter and the last one!  
> Check it out on [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11735223) or on her [Tumblr](http://childside.tumblr.com/post/163910788213/nsfw-mylock-art).   
> I am so chuffed - she is amazing! Thank you so much, lovely!


	80. Chapter 80

The safest thing to do would be to stay put in the relative safety of this small first aid room. Mycroft knew this. He needed to keep Sherlock safe and leading him outside, out  _ there _ , towards the gunfire that was still ringing through the air, would not accomplish that at all. No one would ever blame him for staying put until armed responders arrived - in fact, it would be what he was expected to do. In the chaos afterwards, he’d be able to sneak Sherlock back to his room, and then claim that he had been in the lobby when everything had started and he took shelter here. In this way he would keep the man he loved most in the world safe, plus he would protect their secret. It was the most logical course of action to take, and Mycroft was nothing if not logical.

Except apparently for right this instant. He began to crawl towards the door, Sherlock right on his tail. The gunfire and screaming seemed much further away now so the gunmen must have entered the ballroom proper. He pushed away the stab of fear he felt as he realised Anthea was in there, but panicking wouldn’t help her now so he needed to keep his wits about him. He eased open the door the tiniest crack and peered through it, feeling the comforting warmth of Sherlock’s breath on his neck as he took a look as well.

The foyer was empty, apart from the bodies that littered the ground. The attackers had failed to leave anyone to guard the entrance so Mycroft deduced they were here most likely with the intention of dying for their cause - not to take hostages and run. That was good in the fact that this wouldn’t be a drawn out attack, but bad in the fact that they would be going for maximum kills, not sparing lives to use as bargaining chips. There was more bursts of gunfire from within the ballroom, and more screaming. The doors were flung open and a terrified pair sprinted from the room. Mycroft thought for a moment they would escape but then a man with a shaved head appeared at the door, gun in hand, and shot them as they fled. They fell to the ground, and the man turned and went back inside the ballroom. 

“At least we have some idea of who is doing this,” Mycroft muttered, pushing the door closed so they could try and figure out a plan. The gunman was wearing a green army jacket but instead of the usual adornments, had patches of a confederate flag, a swastika, and celtic cross sewn on the arms - garden variety white supremacists. 

Sherlock looked disgusted. “I suppose the previous US delegate had set much more in motion before he was dismissed than anyone believed.”

“So it would seem. We have to assume that as there is no answering fire, they took out the armed guards on their way in.” The conference hadn’t been heavily protected, but no amount of foreign diplomats in one area would go without  _ some _ protection. 

“If we can find the guards, we might be able to get our hands on their weapons,” his brother suggested.

Mycroft nodded, having been thinking the same thing. He forced himself to pause for a moment, and meet Sherlock’s eyes. “Are you sure that’s what you want to do, Sherlock? I need you to be absolutely certain. There...there’s no guarantee that you won’t be hurt…” He trailed off as his throat closed over at that horrible thought. “I just need you to be sure,” he managed to finish.

His brother pulled him into a crushing kiss, desperate...and final. “Mycie, neither of us are the sort to hide here when we could be doing something. It terrifies me to think that  _ you _ might get hurt, but we both know we’re needed out there. But we’ll be together, and together we are a force to be reckoned with.”

He smiled, and cupped his the younger man’s cheek. “I love you so much, Sherlock. Never forget that.”

Strawberry blonde curls bounced as he shook his head. “I won’t. As long as you won’t ever forget that I love you too.”

They shared one last kiss and then opened the door again to peer out. The lobby was deathly silent and they pulled the door open enough to slip outside. They stayed low, keeping seating and potted plants between them and the ballroom as much as they could as they moved towards the main entrance. Sirens could be heard wailing in the distance, getting closer so at least the cavalry was coming. More shots rang out from the ballroom, a reminder that no matter how quickly the police got here more people would die in the meantime. 

“Single shots,” Sherlock whispered. “They’ve exhausted their ammunition for their automatic weapons and have fallen back on pistols.”

Mycroft only nodded, and spied the bodies of two guards, lying slumped together. Their guns were still in their holsters - they hadn’t seen the attack coming at all. He made a mental note to have a full investigation of the security carried out afterwards. The PM had forbidden him putting his own team on it, stating that it would be a gross insult to their hosts, but perhaps they would have had some warning if he’d had eyes on the venue as well. 

They armed themselves and then headed back towards the ballroom - which had fallen eerily silent. Mycroft recognised a man on the ground in the lobby and he moved towards him, rolling his bulk over with some difficulty. Henderson’s eyes fluttered open as Mycroft removed his masque, and he took a short, wheezy breath, flecks of blood flying from his lips. The bullet to the chest meant his lungs must be filling with blood. Mycroft knew there was nothing they could do for him. “Shhh, rest now - help is on the way, Tobias,” he said as gently as possible.

The man’s eyes flicked across to Sherlock as his eyes widened in recognition. “Oh,” he managed to gasp.

“Don’t worry about that right now,” he continued, his voice soothing as Sherlock covered his position. “Just rest.”

“But you -” he protested, eyes moving between the brothers.

“It’s not important. You just hang on in there, Tobias and we’ll see you safely back to your family.” He didn't want the man’s last thoughts to be trying to figure out the romantic connection between the two brothers.

His words seemed to work and the man’s eyes seemed to brighten as he thought of his wife and children. “Oh, please. I’d like to see them,” he wheezed.

“And you will, just stay still.” Mycroft knew it was wasting time - time they could be using to find out what was going on inside the silent ballroom, time they could be using to save others, but he couldn’t abandon the man on the floor. He deduced he only had a minute or two left on this world and the least he could do could be to sit with him as his life left him. They didn't speak anymore, and slowly Henderson’s eyes became more and more glassy, and then he was gone. 

Neither of them said a word as Mycroft stood from his place on the ground and they moved towards the double doors. One of them was propped open a little with something, and as they got closer they could see it was with the foot of a fallen diplomat. Doing his best to ignore the dead man at his feet, Mycroft peered into the room, trying to gauge what was happening. The scene inside made his blood run cold, and he heard Sherlock’s small gasp beside him.

There were three attackers, and after the initial random shooting, they had divided the room up. Anyone who looked caucasian were kneeling in one row, hands behind their heads, and guarded by the man who had shot the fleeing couple. Mycroft could see Anthea and Wallstein amongst them. Any other diplomat who had darker skin than whatever the attackers had determined, were lined up in another row. They had also been forced to kneel, but their hands were clasped in front of them. They had been forced into execution poses.

One of the men covered the group, and then the other - a burly man with a shaved head and a full beard - walked to the first man in the line. He recognised him as the Uzbekistan delegate, but before the brothers could do anything more than widen their eyes in shock, the bearded man raised his gun and put a bullet through the delegate’s temple. 

Screams broke out amongst the captives as the man fell to the floor, dead. Sherlock met Mycroft’s eyes and they nodded, taking deep breaths. It was time to end this, once and for all. 

They burst through the doors, guns raised.

  
  
  



	81. Chapter 81

Sherlock raised the comforting weight of the gun in his hand and fired a single shot, hitting the man covering the captives waiting to be executed in the forehead. A single shot from the gun Mycroft was wielding took out the bearded man. Their surprise retaliation had eliminated two of the three terrorists but unfortunately, they had now lost the element of surprise. The man who was watching over the first group of hostages raised his gun and fired at the brothers, causing them to take cover behind one of the couches. There were several of the couches in a row and they crawled along until they were at the far end, knowing the furniture would give scant protection from bullets.

Breathing hard due to the adrenaline pumping through his veins, Sherlock peered around the side of the couch, noticing the remaining shooter was focused on the first couch, thinking they were still hiding there. The bad news was he had pulled one of his captives in front of him, using her as a shield. The worse news was that it was Anthea. Just their luck.

“Come on out and no one else has to die tonight!” the man roared.

Recognising a complete fallacy when they heard one, neither brother bothered to reply. 

“What’s it looking like?” Mycroft whispered.

“He’s using Anthea as a shield - we won’t get a clean shot from here,” he whispered back. “If you can distract him, I think I can make it across to there -” He pointed to the sound equipment set up for the DJ, “- which should give me a better angle.”

Mycroft didn’t reply, just pulled him into a fierce kiss, then turned and crawled back down towards the place the armed man thought they were. Sherlock took a precious second to gaze at the shape of his brother’s arse, displayed so nicely for him, then turned and waited for the distraction so he could make a dash for it. He crouched low, coiled like a spring. 

“If you don’t come out, I’m going to start shooting people,” the terrorist taunted them in a sing song voice. 

Mycroft lay himself flat on the ground, making himself into as small a target as possible. He wasn’t quite at the end of the row of couches, but was hiding at the near end of the second - close enough that his voice would sound like it was where the man expected, but hopefully not where the man would inevitably fire. 

“I’m not going to come out,” the diplomat called in a steady voice, “But I will give up my weapon.”

“Show me!”

Mycroft threw the gun away from him, letting it skid out from behind the end couch to where the man could see it. Sherlock took his chance and darted towards the sound equipment, keeping low and hoping the shadows would hide him. His heart seized as the supremacist immediately emptied his gun into the furniture that Mycroft was hiding behind, unable to see if his brother was safe. He reached the relative safety of the equipment and he dropped to one knee to steady himself, lined up a shot, and took it.

The gunman moved at the last minute, sliding a new clip into his gun, and the bullet hit him in the shoulder instead of the throat as planned. He roared in pain, and twirled in the direction Sherlock was hiding, but before he could even try and make another shot, Anthea was moving. She ducked and twisted, a stiletto heeled leg coming to sweep the terrorist’s own legs from under him. He fell heavily to the ground and immediately she kicked the gun away from him, and before the man could move, she was standing over him, the sharp point of her heel resting on the hollow at the base of his neck. It was as good as having a knife held against his throat and he stilled immediately. 

She regarded him for a long moment, and Sherlock was reminded suddenly of watching a nature documentary about birds of prey. She looked very much like an eagle or a hawk, sizing up a field mouse. And then she proved that she wasn’t just a simple PA, but as tough as any agent. “No, I don’t think you get to live,” she said in a very matter of fact voice. She pointed across at the body of the Uzbekistan delegate. “I’d had plans to dance with him tonight, and you and your mates ruined them. I think that deserves some retaliation.” Then with no remorse whatsoever, she stomped her foot down, piercing the man’s throat with her heel. He made an odd gurgling noise, and his body convulsed in a long death throe, and then he went still.

There was a general sigh of relief throughout the room, and one or two people even cheered, but Sherlock ignored them, immediately running across to where he knew his brother was. Before he could get there and potentially give their relationship away by an uncharacteristic display of emotion, Mycroft emerged from behind the couch, brushing dust off his tuxedo. Their eyes met and they took a moment to just gaze at each other, checking each other over for injury. His brother appeared to be unharmed, and his heart only then began to return to its normal rhythm. 

Several people had started to leave the room, unable to stand being amongst the bodies of so many friends, and as they pushed open the doors, shouts could be heard from outside. They raised their arms, and slowly walked back into the room, and everybody froze, wondering if it was more terrorists.

Armed men did appear at the door, but they were dressed in the black tactical gear of the Emergency Response Team. As soon as it was apparent that there was no threat, they began to direct the crowd outside to where medical personnel would look them over. Mycroft went over to speak to the man who appeared to be in charge, and Sherlock remained where he was, knowing he would be needed for questioning. 

Anthea had removed her heels and padded barefoot over to him, Wallstein accompanying her. She gripped Sherlock’s forearm in as affectionate a gesture as they ever shared. “Thank you,” she said simply.

“Nice work,” he replied back. 

She grinned suddenly. “It was worth a pair of shoes to end that fucker.”

Wallstein was regarding Sherlock with interest, noting the change to his hair colour, but she said nothing. The detective ran over in his mind the interactions the brothers had had that evening but couldn’t recall coming across the woman. Of course, that didn't mean she hadn’t seen  _ them _ . The last thing they needed added to their plate at the moment was a curious government official. Anthea seemed to notice the scrutiny and said to Wallstein, “I surprised Sherlock with a ticket to the ball tonight since he was feeling a bit down.” She gave the woman a look that said it should be obvious why and the diplomat’s eyes lit up with understanding.

“Ah yes, distraction from your grief is sometimes needed,” she said in a sympathetic voice.

“I wasn’t sure how well they’d check the invitations so I figured a change of hair colour would help,” Anthea explained. “Lucky for us, he  _ was _ here.”

“Yes, you saved many lives tonight, Sherlock - both you and your brother did. You should be proud.”

He nodded, not really caring for Wallstein’s approval, but knowing some form of acknowledgement was required. The trio fell silent as they watched the ERT move about the room, checking for the injured amongst the fallen, and assisting the survivors. It wasn’t much longer before Mycroft came back over to them.

“The convention centre, including the hotel, is in lockdown but as long as we register our room numbers with the personnel at the front, we’ll be allowed to return to our rooms. They’ll be sending officers around to get statements throughout the night and into tomorrow morning, and until we’ve given them, we’re expected to stay put.”

Suddenly exhausted, Sherlock wasn’t at all bothered about being sent to his hotel room and told to stay there. All he wanted was some sleep, and his brother in his arms. 

Wallstein was looking around the room, searching for someone. “Has anyone seen Henderson?” she asked. “He wasn’t in the room when they attacked, so I’m hoping he was somewhere safe.”

Sherlock looked away, knowing Mycroft would break the news to her and not wanting to see her expression when he did. Anthea touched his arm and murmured, “How about we go register our rooms?”

He caught the brief nod of Mycroft’s head and then acquiesced, following the PA out into the lobby. He looked back once over his shoulder and saw Wallstein’s face crumple as she was told of the death of her colleague. His brother was awkwardly patting her on the back, but there was grief of his own written across his face. The sooner they got back to their rooms, the sooner he could wrap his arms around his lover and provide the comfort his brother so desperately needed. 


	82. Chapter 82

Mycroft had gotten caught up in a discussion with some of the other delegates and he had gestured for the rest of his party to not wait for him and to return to their rooms. When he finally got free, almost an hour had passed and he was more than eager to get back to his brother. He very suddenly wanted - no,  _ needed _ \- to have the younger man in his arms. He needed to be able to taste his lips, and breathe in his scent, and feel his heartbeat beneath his fingers just to reassure himself that they were both okay. The initial adrenaline rush had worn off, and he was starting to over-analyse the evening’s events and it was clear just how badly it  _ could _ have gone wrong. 

He went to his own room, always concerned about outward appearances, and let himself in. He went straight to the connecting door and found it already ajar. He expected Sherlock to be asleep already, as he had looked utterly exhausted as he’d left the lobby, but instead he was awake, standing in front of the window in just his trousers and shirt. Mycroft joined him, wrapping his arms around his brother’s waist and leaning his head on his shoulder. 

Flickers of red and blue of the emergency vehicle lights danced across the sharp cheekbones as the detective observed the bustle of activity on the ground below. He was quiet, but he pressed himself firmly backwards into Mycroft’s embrace. They just stood together for a long time, watching the world pass by beneath them. Eventually the younger man sighed and twisted in Mycroft’s arms until they were standing chest to chest. His arms came up to link about his older brother’s neck and he leaned their foreheads together. Mycroft closed his eyes, feeling the warm puff of life affirming breath on his cheek. “Make love to me?” Sherlock whispered.

Mycroft gave a small smile. “I was going to be selfish and ask if you would make love to me...” Any other night and he wouldn’t have mentioned it at all - he would have immediately succumbed to his brother’s desires, but tonight he needed, he just  _ needed.  _ He opened his eyes and moved back a little so he could see the younger man properly.

Sherlock’s expression softened and he leaned in and kissed him. “Of course, Mycie. Anything you need.”

Overcome with gratitude, the older man could do nothing but fall into another kiss, this one much more heated. Without breaking the kiss, Sherlock walked them backwards until the bed was bumping against the back of Mycroft’s knees and he sat down onto it. The detective climbed up to straddle his lap, his large hands cupping Mycroft’s face gently as he pushed his tongue again into his brother’s mouth. The intensity of the kiss deepened, and Mycroft was consumed by it. His entire world narrowed down until the only parts of it that mattered were the feel of that plush cupid’s bow against his own lips, the slide of tongue on tongue, and the firm body beneath his fingers as they explored up and under Sherlock’s shirt. His fingers danced over heated skin, bumping over the raised ridges of old scars, and dropped until they were dipping inside the waistband of his trousers. All he felt was more skin and he grinned suddenly, causing the kiss to break off.

“What?” Sherlock asked, moving to kiss Mycroft’s cheek and jaw.

“I just remembered where your underwear is. Luckily we weren’t asked to turn out our pockets.”

The younger man sniggered. “Oh, that  _ would _ have raised a few eyebrows.” He kissed his way back down Mycroft’s face until he once again reached his mouth, and pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of his lips. “As sexy as you look in a tux, how about we get you out of it now?”

Mycroft nodded and shrugged off his jacket, and then lay down so Sherlock could begin to undo his shirt buttons. Neither seemed able to forgo any contact at all, so it was awkward and took longer than usual to shed all their clothes but eventually they were both naked. His brother pressed open mouthed kisses to Mycroft’s throat and collarbones, one hand moving constantly up and down over ribs and stomach while the other was braced at the side, holding him up.

For his part, Mycroft tried not to cling to Sherlock like he so desperately wanted. The urge to wrap his arms and legs around his brother and never let go was almost overwhelming, but he managed to taper it to some degree. He did wrap his legs around Sherlock’s waist, and his hands were ceaseless, roaming constantly over the lithe body above him. Small, needy whimpers spilled constantly from his mouth, but he didn’t care how it made him sound. He desperately needed Sherlock, and he wouldn’t hide that fact. His brother was the one person that he never had to hide his true self from, the only person in existence that he could bare his soul to and know he would never be mocked, or judged. In this room, with this person, he didn't have to be the emotionless Iceman. Here it was safe to give in to his feelings and desires, to reveal his vulnerability, and to lay his heart open before him. 

Sherlock reached over and grabbed the lube from the side table, placing it closer to hand but not applying any yet. He seemed content to simply kiss and explore Mycroft, and the older man was more than happy to oblige. He did pull him upwards so their lips could meet once more, needing to share breath with his brother. Sherlock rocked his hips and his erection dragged along Mycroft’s own, and they both moaned into the kiss at the sensation. The younger man lazily rocked his hips again, wanting to replicate the sensation but only to enjoy it, not as a means to an end. Their pricks were both dripping, and their stomachs were soon slick with pre-come, allowing their heated flesh to slide against each other more easily. Mycroft reached down and grabbed hold of Sherlock’s plush arse, kneading the firm flesh in his hands, loving how warm the ample handfuls felt. He felt the muscles tense and then his brother thrust again, causing a spike of pleasure to shoot through him as the heads of their cocks rubbed against each other.

It was Mycroft who reached for the tube of gel at their sides, flipping open the cap by feel and squeezing a generous measure onto his hand. He reached down and grasped Sherlock’s cock, smearing the entire length with the lube, and then guiding it towards his entrance. His brother took hold of his cock and ran it lightly over the outside of Mycroft’s quivering hole, transferring the excess gel to it. He continued to drag the head of his cock up and down over his entrance, then further up over Mycroft’s perineum, then back down so it caught just a little in the welcoming muscle. Mycroft moaned at the sensation, wanting to urge his brother to hurry, but enjoying the exquisite torture too much. Sherlock pressed his hips forward just a little and the tip of his cock slid inside, and he stopped just as he reached the first ring of muscle. He pulled back out and continued to tease Mycroft with his cock, guiding it up and twirling it around his heavy bollocks. The older man’s cock twitched, sending a pulse of pre-ejaculate over his stomach, and he let out a wanton whimper. Taking pity on his lover, Sherlock moved back down and again, pressed just the head of his cock inside. He rested there for a moment as he caught Mycroft’s lips in another kiss, his tongue slipping inside to tangle deliciously with his own. Mycroft got so caught up in the kiss that the feeling of Sherlock’s cock slipping past the first restrictive muscle was almost missed. As the younger man pressed in deeper and deeper, Mycroft gasped as pleasure shot through him, and he lifted his feet to press against Sherlock’s arse, begging for him to go even deeper.

His lover complied and soon Mycroft felt his balls slapping against the skin of his arse. He wrapped his arms around his brother’s neck, and pulling away from the kiss, pressed his face into the crook of his neck, holding him tightly. Sherlock’s arms also curled around his brother and they stilled for a moment, just relishing in the feel of each other, of being so intimately connected. 

“ _ Mycroft _ ,” Sherlock gasped, not needing to say anything more to articulate what he was feeling in that instant. 

“Oh, my love,” Mycroft replied, and tilted his hips, causing their pelvises to roll against each other. Sherlocked rocked back in answer, and soon they were moving in synchronisation, hips, lips, and hands all caught up in the dance. Mycroft felt surrounded, saturated, completed. Their eyes met and the love he felt was reflected back at him, as well as the sheer need to feel, to realise that they had gotten through the night unscathed despite the odds. 

Sherlock tried to reach between them to take hold of Mycroft’s cock, but the way their bodies were pressed together made it almost impossible. Mycroft urged his brother to pull out and lie down on his back with his knees raised. He then straddled him, one arm resting on one of the knees for support, the other grasping Sherlock’s erection so he could guide himself down onto it. He kept his eyes locked on those glorious blue-green eyes the whole time, watching the micro expressions on his brother’s face as he lowered himself down. Once he was fully seated, he began to rock back and forth, feeling the hard cock grinding deep inside of him. Long fingers wrapped around his own shaft and then Sherlock began to stroke him expertly, matching the rhythm of his own movements. 

The pace increased as they both became more frantic, desperate to share in a release of ecstasy and come, a reminder that they were both alive, that they were both loved. Mycroft could feel his orgasm building, the tingling pressure building from his groin and radiating out through to the base of his spine and his stomach. His movements became jerky as he felt himself inch ever closer to the edge, and then with a clever twist of Sherlock’s fingers, he was coming. He cried out as he spurted jets of hot semen over both himself and his brother, and the muscles of his passage contracted around the cock buried deep inside. Sherlock grabbed his hips hard, and thrust upwards, chasing his own pleasure, and soon his eyes squeezed shut and an expression of bliss settled over his face. Mycroft could feel the warmth of his seed inside of him and the tremors of his body under him.

They were both sweaty, and sticky, and messy but neither cared as they held each other close, Mycroft sacking down onto his brother. Sherlock’s fingers traced idle patterns on his back, and his heartbeat was loud and strong beneath Mycroft’s ear. It was to this steady, reassuring beat that he fell asleep.

  
  



	83. Chapter 83

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember, if you're interested in joining a group of avid Mylockers on Facebook, drop me an email at scarletmanuka1@gmail.com for an invite. It's set to 'secret' so no one will see it, and it's a really friendly, fun place. We do a lot of fangirling over the boys (we're all grown ups I swear!) but we also post story teasers, bounce ideas off each other, and share amazing artwork.

Mycroft woke to the sounds of people moving up the corridor and could hear the doors to the  neighbouring rooms being knocked on. It seemed the investigators had reached their floor, and it wouldn’t be much longer before they would come for their own statements. He looked down to where Sherlock was curled up asleep in his arms, and decided that taking a statement would take longer than five minutes so he still had a little time to enjoy this. His brother had been quite the octopus last night once they had settled down to sleep, clinging to him voraciously and refusing to let go. Mycroft had, as usual, attempted to migrate to the edge of the bed in his sleep, but the clinging limbs of his brother had prevented his movement by more than an inch or so. Warmth bloomed in his chest at knowing that even while asleep, Sherlock was keeping him close in order to comfort and protect him. Once upon a time he had thought that needing either of those things was a form of weakness, but now he understood clearly how much strength it took to allow yourself to be so open and vulnerable to someone else, how much trust was required. 

He pressed his lips to Sherlock’s curls, and breathed in the familiar scent. His brother had refused to leave his expensive shampoo behind in London, and had carted it all the way over here. The older brother had teased him about that as they had been packing, but was secretly pleased. He knew he would find it extremely odd to nuzzle into Sherlock’s curls and smell something different. The scent was so entwined with Mycroft’s memories of his brother, that it was an intrinsic part of him now.  

Sherlock stirred against him and soon those lovely eyes were blinking slowly as he came awake. A sleepy smile spread across his lips and Mycroft found the sight utterly adorable. “Hi,” Sherlock murmured, his arms moving to squeeze Mycroft’s waist.

“Good morning,” he replied in a hushed voice. “We’ll need to get up soon. The investigators are in the rooms next to ours and will be here once they’re finished.”

“Do you think this is going to push our timeline out at all?” the detective asked, extending his legs as he stretched, working out the kinks in his body. Mycroft could feel the taut muscles rippling beneath his fingers and he itched to kiss every one of them, but of course now wasn’t the time.

“It may do, but I cannot be sure. Wallstein and I will have to conference with the PM, Lady Smallwood, and Sir Edwin to discuss what actions we need to take. I’m hoping they will be few, considering this hasn’t happened on British soil, and it won’t raise our own terror alert. I can’t see it not affecting it to some degree though since we were both involved in putting a stop to it.”

“I’ll phone the rental company then and see what we can do about postponing the pickup of the van. I’m hoping they’ll be accommodating due to the circumstances.”

“I’m sure there won’t be a problem.” He sighed. “I doubt we’ll see much of each other today. Will you be alright?”

“I’m not the one who lost a colleague yesterday. Don’t you worry about me. I’m a big boy and can take care of myself, Mycie.”

Unable to help himself, he reached down and cupped Sherlock’s cock. “Yes, yes you are,” he said with a leer.

Sherlock laughed and it was music to Mycroft’s ears. He batted away his hand and rolled free so he could get out of bed. “Right, if we don’t want these people meeting us in the buff, we should get dressed.”

The older man sighed again, lamenting the circumstances that prevented him from remaining there and drinking in the sight of the adonis before him. He didn’t think he would ever quite get used to the breathtaking beauty that was a naked Sherlock Holmes. His brother saw him ogling him and winked, then turned and headed for the bathroom, an extra wiggle in his hips that caused his plush bottom to bounce enticingly. “You are utterly evil,” Mycroft moaned, before throwing back the covers and climbing out of bed.

Sherlock returned from the bathroom holding a robe and threw it at him. “Yes, but you love me anyway.”

Mycroft crossed the room to him and pulled him in for a chaste kiss, wishing his mouth wasn’t feeling like a sack of mouldy potatoes so he could make it a deeper one. “More than you will ever know,” he told him, rubbing their noses together.

Sherlock gave him an impish grin, and twisted his body so their cocks, both still semi-erect, rubbed together as well. “Go and get dressed, otherwise you’ll meet the investigator in just a robe and the British Government would never be caught dead doing such a thing.”

Mycroft mock glared as his cock sprung fully to life. “I take that back, I hate you.” he said as he pulled the robe around him and belted it shut.

His brother winked and as Mycroft turned to go back to his own room, gave his arse a playful slap. “Love you too!”

Chuckling, Mycroft closed the door between their rooms and then headed for a shower. What had seemed like a good idea at the time when they’d fallen asleep without cleaning up the night before, was now rather uncomfortable. He turned the shower on as hot as he could stand, but it took almost the full bottle of body wash the hotel provided to clean the hair on his legs from the congealed mess that stuck like superglue. Why on earth did sex have to be so messy?

He reluctantly turned off the shower, knowing he was running out of time, and after a cursory brush of his teeth, he slipped into one of his suits and was just boiling the kettle at the small tea and coffee station when there was the expected knock at the door. He opened it to find a large, burly man in a dark grey suit standing outside, holding a large enveloped folder. He held up an ID card and introduced himself. “I’m Team Leader Sergeant Harry Masterson of the ERT and I’m here to ask you about your involvement in yesterday’s incident.”

“Mycroft Holmes,” the diplomat replied, offering a hand to shake, which was grasped firmly. “Won’t you please come in.” Masterson gave a nod and followed Mycroft inside, and accepted the chair at the small table. “I’m making tea - would you like a cup?”

The man looked taken aback at the offer, and Mycroft deduced most people he spoke to were usually so intimidated by him that they were a quivering mess. “Uh, sure, that would actually be very welcome. Thank you.”

After making the drinks, Mycroft set them down on the table and placed milk and sugar between them. “It’s UHT I’m afraid, but needs must.”

The sergeant smiled for the first time, and added a generous splash of milk to his tea. “In my line of work, if it’s hot, it’s a plus.”

“I can imagine.”

The man took a sip of his drink and closed his eyes in a moment of bliss. It didn’t take a Holmes to see this was the first time he’d really been able to take a moment and pause since the night before. He seemed to gather himself and then pulled out a few forms from the folder. “Ready to begin?”

Mycroft nodded. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“You’re the lead delegate for the British representatives, Mr Holmes?”

“Indeed I am.”

“And from the initial reports I have here, it was yourself and your brother, Sherlock Holmes, who engaged the suspects?”

“That is correct.”

“Is your brother part of the delegation?”

“No, he is not. He accompanied me to Vancouver as we’re doing some traveling together once the conference has concluded.”

Masterson nodded and made a note. “Can you go over the events that led up to this point?”

The brothers had gone over what they would say in their statements the night before, so he confidently explained, “As you’re likely aware, my brother should not have been in attendance last night. My PA took it upon herself to procure an additional ticket however so he could attend. Our mother has recently passed away, and Anthea was worried that Sherlock was brooding, and wanted to distract him. I was unaware that he would be in attendance and when he tracked me down, we left the ballroom so I could demand an explanation.” He gave a wry smile. “It wouldn’t do to bicker with my sibling in such a public forum. I admit I’m quite an overbearing older brother and my complaints can get...verbacious.”

Masterson nodded. “I have three younger siblings.” There was no need to elaborate further.

“Sherlock can be rather dramatic and when our - I hesitate to say argument, but it had surpassed bickering by that point - became too loud, I saw the first aid room and dragged him in there so he wouldn’t cause a scene. It was whilst we were in there that we heard the initial gunfire and established what was happening. Despite our personal differences, we work together efficiently when required and quickly came up with a plan of attack.”

“You have specialised training?” Masterson asked diplomatically.

Although not public knowledge, his experience was outlined in his official dossier that the ERT would certainly have access to, so Mycroft saw no reason to dissemble. “I have done my time with not only MI5 and MI6, but have worked in a freelance capacity for the CIA in the past. I mostly avoid the legwork nowadays but I underwent the full training at the beginning of my time with the Secret Service.”

The ERT operative raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed. “And your brother? Does he have particular training?”

“Unless you count being in the wrong place at the wrong time, not particularly. Actually, I do him a disservice - he has trained in the art of boxing and swordsmanship, and through his work as a Consulting Detective with Scotland Yard, he has had to defend himself on numerous occasions. So he has some form of training, but nothing official.”

The sergeant nodded, and made another note, but then his professional demeanour dropped for a moment. “Can I just say, Mr Holmes - off the record of course - that I really appreciate that you and your brother stepped up last night. You went above and beyond what was expected, and in doing so, you saved a hell of a lot of lives. You could have waited for us to arrive, but instead you put yourselves at risk to stop those bastards. Officially I can’t condone what you did, but personally, you have my thanks.”

Mycroft gave a small shrug. “There was no other option, Sergeant. We did the only thing we possibly could.”

“Your government is lucky to have you.” He cleared his throat and slipped back into questioning mode. “So what happened once you left the first aid room?”

Taking another sip of his tea, Mycroft prepared to finish his story.

 


	84. Chapter 84

It ended up being a further three days before the brothers could begin their holiday proper. Sherlock had done his best to entertain himself whilst Mycroft worked, but he was definitely getting antsy by the time it came for them to leave. He seemed to vibrate with pent up energy, and he just wanted to _ get on the road _ . When Wallstein stopped them to ask ‘just one more question’ as they were waiting for the elevator to take them to the lobby, the detective almost exploded. It was the subtle pinch to his side from Mycroft that made his wipe the annoyed snarl off his face, and replace it with his normal bored expression. His brother patiently answered the question and then Wallstein was wishing them farewell. “I really hope you have a lovely break - you boys need it. Have fun!”

“We will,” Sherlock told her with a smile, which disappeared instantly once her back was turned. The elevator dinged and he hustled his brother inside, repeatedly hitting the ‘close door’ button until they slid shut obligingly.

“Sherlock, calm down,” Mycroft said, laying a hand on his arm. 

“I can’t,” he almost whined, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Not until we’ve put the city - and your work - behind us.”

“I’m sorry it caused us to be delayed, brother mine” the older man said, his face falling.

“No! I’m not blaming you. Just trying to explain why I’m so anxious to be gone. Do you have any idea of how much I’ve been looking forward to this?”

“I believe so since my anticipation would be a match for yours.” It was only a slightly reproving tone.

The doors opened and they emerged into the lobby, heading for the front desk to check out. “I’m sorry. I know I sound like a brat,” he apologised. 

Mycroft gave him a warm smile - the most affectionate it could be for the time being. Once they had left Vancouver and were on their road trip, they could pretend that they weren’t brothers, but proper life partners. “It’s okay, Sherlock. I understand. Not long now.”

His brother proved to be omniscient as it was hardly any time at all before they were checked out (a parting gift from Anthea no doubt) and the courtesy bus was dropping them off at the hire company. Sherlock couldn’t help the grin that spread over his face as he took in the row of almost new campervans, recognising the model they had hired. He would have been happy with any old thing (he had been keen for camping in a tent after all) but Mycroft had insisted on something with more than just the bare minimum of amenities. They left their luggage just inside the door and then crossed to the counter.

“Hello,” Sherlock greeted the young lady who worked there, with more cheerfulness than he usually affected for day to day encounters. “We have a reservation under Holmes.”

“Good afternoon, sir,” she replied, her eyes widening a little as she took him in, and he immediately regretted his grin. He hoped Mycroft didn’t notice the obvious signs of her attraction since the last thing he wanted was to kick their holiday off with his brother having a self esteem crisis. Of course, his brother was blind to all of the appreciative looks  _ he _ received, but he seemed to notice every single one that was directed at the younger man and depending on his state of mind at the time, it could leave him feeling lacking. “Let me just get the paperwork for you,” she stammered as her eyes dropped momentarily to his crotch. Both men had left behind their suits and had gone for a more casual look for their holiday, and so Sherlock was wearing a pair of tight fitting jeans and a white t shirt that seemed to have shrunk slightly in the wash. No matter how much he tugged it down, it seemed content to sit at the level of his waistband. He had been pleased with his clothing choice when Mycroft had eyed him hungrily that morning, but now it didn't seem to be such a clever idea.

She hurried off to a printer, and he turned to catch Mycroft’s eyeroll. “I can’t take you anywhere,” he said drily, but there was a twinkle in his eyes so Sherlock knew he wasn’t too upset.

“Here we go,” the girl said as she returned, her eyes flickering over Sherlock’s body again and a blush creeping across her cheeks. “I’ll just need your signatures here and here, and a copy of your UK driving licences.”

They pulled out their wallets and Sherlock took Mycroft’s from him. “Here’s mine,” he said, handing over his first. “And here’s my husband’s,” he added as he handed her Mycroft’s. Ignoring the way his brother’s eyes widened, he slipped an arm about his waist and pulled him close. “We’re  _ so _ looking forward to this trip!”

Her eyes flickered between the both of them and her blush deepened. “I...is it your first time h...here?” she asked, tripping over her words as Mycroft jumped on board with the deception and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

“It is for me, but Mycie here has been all over the world for work so he’s quite familiar with both Canada and the States.”

“I enjoy it here very much,” the older man added with a friendly smile.

“Well, I hope you’ll enjoy your first time here together,” she said. Her eyes widened at the unintentional innuendo and Sherlock winked at her.

“Oh, we intend to!”

“Sherlock!” Mycroft chastised him. “Leave the poor girl alone. I’m terribly sorry, miss. He can be a right terror at times.”

“That’s okay,” she mumbled and Sherlock was certain that as soon as they left she would most likely take an extended break away from her desk.

They managed to complete the paperwork without further embarrassing the poor girl, and soon the keys were being handed over. “Take some time to get acquainted with the vehicle before you leave the lot,” she said, regaining her professionalism.  “If you notice anything that requires attention, please let us know before you go. Otherwise, enjoy your trip.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft told her sincerely as he picked up the keys.

Sherlock felt like he was a child again on Christmas morning, which was rather silly given he was a grown man, but it didn’t stop him from practically skipping over to where they had left their luggage. He held the door open for Mycroft, and soon they were crossing the car park, searching the vans for the one that matched the license plate they had on their paperwork.

It was a medium sized campervan but one of the higher end varieties. Leaving his luggage behind, Sherlock practically ripped the door open and leaped up the steps, taking in the small space. There was a small kitchenette directly opposite the door and then next to that one of the tables with cushioned bench seats that graced all sorts of vans. Mounted above the table was a flat screen television, and to the right of the door, opposite the table were two rather comfortable looking armchair style seats. Further in, the space narrowed, a small toilet on one side and a shower on the other (the shower was one of the amenities that Mycroft had insisted upon) and then beyond was the bed. It wasn’t overly large, and both of them would struggle to keep their feet from hanging over the edge, but it looked comfortable enough. 

Mycroft came and stood behind him, wrapping his arms about his waist as he surveyed the space. “It’s nicer than I expected,” he admitted.

Sherlock grinned. “It will be even nicer once we’re lying in bed together.”

“Yes, that  _ does _ seem to improve any situation,” the older man agreed.

Sherlock turned in his arms and pressed a kiss to his lips. “Oh, Mycie, I am so  _ happy _ . We are going to have the most amazing time.”

Mycroft smiled and cupped his cheek. “Of course we will, because we’ll be together. Shall we begin?”

“Gods, yes!”

After one more kiss, they turned and exited the rear of the van, ready to be on the open road.

 


	85. Chapter 85

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's double post Sunday so don't forget to hit 'next chapter'!
> 
> Also, I apologise (sorta, not really) for the sheer amount of smut that will soon be gracing your screens. The boys get horribly horny while on holidays!

It was well after midday when they drove away from the hire company. They had done their inspection of the van, and Sherlock had almost begged to take the first turn at the wheel. Mycroft could only laugh and gesture extravagantly to the driver’s seat. Seeing the sheer delight on his brother’s face was such a novelty that he would do anything to make him happy. Over the course of the past year, when they had been alone, Sherlock had let down his walls and had allowed Mycroft to see the emotional extremes he experienced, and yet this almost childlike giddiness was new to him. He thought he had seen Sherlock happy before, but this took it to an entirely different level. It didn't take a genius (of which he was certified) to deduce that the heightened emotion stemmed from the fact that here, no one knew their familial ties. They could leave behind their sibling bond, their history, and every preconceived notion, and simply be a couple. 

The more he thought about it, the more this appealed to Mycroft, and he felt an almost dizzying freedom fall over him. They had pulled up at some traffic lights and so he held Sherlock’s eye as he reached into his pocket and brought out his phone. He very visibly turned the device off, then he opened the glove compartment and threw the phone into it, slamming it shut. He turned with a grin, and found an answering one spread across Sherlock’s gorgeous lips. He was leaving behind the Iceman, the British Government, and all his responsibilities. This was  _ their _ time and he was going to devote every moment of it to just them. He reached over and gave Sherlock’s thigh a squeeze, a silent promise that for the next two weeks, he was simply  _ Mycie. _

“First thing on the agenda,” Sherlock announced, pointing at the shopping centre coming up ahead. “We need to stop and stock up on supplies, and we should probably get some lunch.”

Mycroft nodded, and they drove into the lot, finding a space at the far end where other campervans and caravans were parked. They hopped out and began walking towards the centre, and Mycroft could feel the nervousness emanating from his brother. “What is it?” he asked in concern.

Sherlock took a deep breath, and seemed to hesitate. Then he muttered, ‘Sod it,” and reached over and took Mycroft’s hand.

The same euphoria that had befallen him at the ball at their public display of affection washed over him again, but there was a subtle difference this time. They were not wearing masques now, there was nothing to hide their identities - they were publicly declaring their affection and their love. Mycroft couldn’t keep the smile off his face and squeezed Sherlock’s hand warmly. “I love you, Sherlock.”

“I love you, too, Mycie.” His brother gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and then they were crossing the last section of car park and were entering the centre.

The regular Mycroft Holmes would never have been caught dead in a Walmart. He would have stood outside and sneered in derision and then found a small, boutique grocery store to shop at. Holiday Mycie grabbed a cart with enthusiasm and led his brother inside for their first superstore adventure. It was coming up to Halloween and the entire front of the store was awash with giant multipacks of chocolate and sweets, gaudy plastic orange pumpkins, and costume supplies. Sherlock became distracted by a toy skeleton that chattered at him when he pressed a button, and Mycroft could only stand and watch at the delight on his brother’s face. It was easy to see he wasn’t the only one who had made the decision to leave behind his everyday self and to adapt a more carefree persona for the trip. 

Their shopping experience took much longer than it should have done, but since they weren’t on a deadline, neither cared. Their van came equipped with cooking utensils and all the basics they would need, but Sherlock was adamant that at least some of the time he wanted to have a campfire and cook over that. They added a few cheap camping supplies to their cart to accommodate his wishes; a frypan, a billy can for making tea, some long reach barbeque tongs, and firelighters and matches. When they got to the food section, Mycroft left Sherlock to ponder over what sausages to buy, and went hunting for something he knew would please his brother immensely. He returned and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek, dropping into the cart a large bag of marshmallows, Graham crackers, and a block of chocolate. “We can’t have a campfire without making s’mores,” he said.

Sherlock chuckled and squeezed him around the waist. “Brilliant,” he crowed.

They finished their shopping, getting more junk food than Mycroft had eaten since he was a chubby teenager, but neither caring much. They had decided to forego stopping somewhere for lunch and had bought some baked cheesey rolls to eat as they drove, and so they returned to the van to pack away their shopping. 

They had overestimated how much space the van had and they had to get creative with places to store their purchases, and if it wasn’t for their knack of having perfect recall, they would spend most of the trip trying to remember where they had stashed the ketchup. Mycroft shut the last cupboard, grunting a little as he gave it a hard push to keep the overflowing contents contained, and then slumped down into one of the armchairs. “Shopping is rather exhausting,” he said.

Sherlock nodded and then fixed him with a look that Mycroft was sure he knew, but had never expected to see on his face at this very moment. “Perhaps a respite is in order?” the detective said, a predatory smile on his face as he sank to his knees in front of the chair.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?” Mycroft asked, certain his brother would never unzip the older man’s chinos while they were parked in the middle of a shopping centre carpark, but having to accept the evidence before him that stated that was  _ exactly what he was doing _ . He let out a breathy moan as his rapidly hardening cock was expertly manoevered out of his pants.

“I just need a little taste,” his brother explained with a sexy quirk to his lips. Then he was lowering his head and Mycroft’s view was filled with bobbing ebony curls (back to their natural colour thanks to a bottle of hair dye), plush lips wrapped around his shaft, and Sherlock’s own cock as he freed it from his jeans. He looked away, the sight causing him to almost blow his load that very instant, but found that was a mistake. The rather horrid green curtains were tied back, giving Mycroft an unobstructed view of the car park, and he could see shoppers going about their daily business all around them. The height of the van and the windows meant no one would be able to see what was going on below waist level, but Mycroft’s face was on full view. He reached up to close the curtains but a long fingered hand stopped him. Sherlock pulled off his cock and simply  said, “Leave them,” and then he was moving back down, an erotic slurping noise filling the van.

“ _ Fuck, _ ” Mycroft moaned, and tried to keep his expression free from the bliss that was overwhelming him. He could see Sherlock’s hand flying over his own leaking shaft and as he took his brother’s cock in particularly deep, Mycroft couldn’t hold back any longer. His head dropped back and his eyes closed as he came, gasping out his brother’s name. Sherlock’s free hand came up to grasp for the box of tissues they had placed on the side and he plucked out a handful, catching his own release neatly. 

They remained where they were as they regained their breaths and Mycroft peered out the window, looking for shocked faces that would indicate their activity had been detected. There were none and he felt himself relax minutely. “Bloody hell, Sherlock,” he said with a laugh.

An impish grin settled over his brother’s face and Mycroft reached down to brush a sweaty curl off his brow. “Figured we’d start the trip with a bang.”

“And you were immensely successful.” He tucked himself away and adjusted his clothes. “Shall we continue?” he asked. “We do want to cross the border before dark.”

Sherlock stood and offered a hand, pulling him to his feet. “Sounds like a plan.”

 


	86. Chapter 86

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I write places better from experience (though I'm sure my writing of smut would improve as well if I could have a threesome with Sherlock and Mycroft...just saying, Universe) and so I have shamelessly stolen their route from the one I took on one of my last road trips in Canada (with a dip down to see Miss St Helens). All the places they go are real, though I have elaborated outside of my experience for several things. So if you're familiar with the area and then find something that is totally incorrect, that will be because I've had to make that shit up.

Mycroft had taken a turn at the wheel once they had left Vancouver behind them, allowing Sherlock the freedom to observe their surroundings. Not that they were driving through anything spectacular as yet, but it was vastly different to the familiar streets of London and even the English countryside. They passed through Whiterock and approached the border, choosing the lane for visitors that were not either US or Canadian citizens. They were directed to park and then go inside the customs building, and they were called forward by an officer.

“Purpose of your trip, gentleman?” the man asked them, accepting the passports they handed over.

“Heading down to see Mount St Helens,” Mycroft explained pleasantly.

“And how long are you intending on being in the States?”

“Only a few days. Once we’re done there, we’ll be heading back up into Canada.”

The man nodded, and swiped Mycroft’s passport through the machine. He was alerted by a beeping noise and Mycroft assumed his diplomatic status had flashed up. The man’s eyes widened a little and he handed the passport back over. “Thank you, Mr Holmes. Muchly appreciated. I won’t be two tics and then we’ll have you both on your way.”

Sherlock had looked around at the other people in the office and noted the lengthy interview processes and visa paperwork they were having to do and turned back with a raised eyebrow. “Perks of the job I see,” he commented.

Mycroft shrugged, rather used to it by now. “Fairly standard.”

“I wasn’t expecting to be included in your professional cocoon.”

“As you say, perks of the job.”

The officer returned and it was mere minutes later that they were returning to their van and continuing on with their journey. Although he had decided to leave his work self behind, he had to admit that it had its advantages, and he would embrace those if they would make this holiday go smoothly. “Shall we stop in at Seattle for the night?” he asked as he returned them to the highway.

Sherlock shrugged non-committedly. “If you want.”

“What do you want?”

“I think I’d prefer to avoid a big city.”

Mycroft smiled. “That’s fine. We’ll skirt the edges of the city and then stop at a campground somewhere. Why don’t you search for one that’s suitable?”

Sherlock pulled out his phone and did a quick search. “There’s one half an hour past the city.”

“You’re the navigator - just tell me where we need to go.” Mycroft smiled again, and realised he had hardly been without a smile for the previous day. 

They continued south, Seattle looming on their right as they drove past it. Using the GPS feature on his phone, Sherlock guided them to a small camp site in a town called Kent and they pulled up outside the office. Mycroft noticed his brother grimace and he followed his gaze to the sign -  _ Kampgrounds of America _ . “Why would they  _ do _ that?” Sherlock demanded.

The older man shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“They are butchering the English language!”

“Yes, well, they also dumped 40 tonnes of tea into the harbour, Sherlock. Suffice to say they have differing priorities to us.”

His brother continued to scowl as they made their way inside and Mycroft booked them a site for the night. They made their way down to it, finding the sites to either side, and some way around as well, blissfully vacant. It appeared to be a slow night, but given the fact it was a Tuesday evening and summer was long over, he wasn’t too surprised. He pulled into the site and Sherlock disappeared into the evening, leaving Mycroft to figure out how to connect the van to the power by himself. The day had been sunny and quite warm but the temperature was beginning to drop alarmingly as the sun sank in the sky and he definitely wanted to be able to run the heater overnight. 

His brother returned after a while, his arms full with a big bag of chopped wood he had purchased from the small shop. He dumped it on the ground in front of the fire pit and then went in search of twigs and sticks he could use as kindling. Seeing an evening in front of a campfire before him, and wishing to make it as pleasant as possible, Mycroft retrieved from the van the canvas camp chairs and small folding table they had purchased, a small lantern, and a bottle of bug spray. He had finished setting it all up and sat himself down, burrowing into his jacket as a chill breeze picked up. Sherlock was still only wearing jeans and his t shirt and Mycroft enjoyed the sight of his brother’s nipples pebbling under the fabric as he stacked the pit.

It wasn’t long before a fire was crackling away and Sherlock was standing back, hands on his narrow hips as he looked at it in satisfaction. Mycroft stood up behind him and wrapped his arms about his waist, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Well done, love. Why don’t you go and put something warmer on? I don’t want you freezing to death.” He ran his hands up and down his brother’s arms, feeling the goosebumps that had already broken out. 

Humming in agreement, Sherlock disappeared into the van, and Mycroft took the billy can to the tap a short distance away to fill it up. It would take a while for the fire to get hot enough to heat it for tea, but he wanted to humour Sherlock and refrain from using the kitchen facilities in the van, at least for tonight. He knew it wouldn’t take too long for the novelty to wear off and then Sherlock would be much more lax about such things as convenience outweighed whimsy.

When he returned, Sherlock had added a leather jacket to his ensemble that was so sexy it should be illegal. In complete contradiction to this was the knit beanie he now wore, his curls sticking out the bottom of it in disarray. He pulled Mycroft close and pulled a matching beanie down over his head. “Can’t have you getting cold either,” he murmured, kissing the tip of Mycroft’s long nose.

“Let us pray that the fashion police don’t see us,” Mycroft replied wryly.

“Pfft, we’re on holidays. I know you’re used to looking utterly sexy in your suits, but you’ll have to get used to looking utterly sexy in frumpy casual wear.”

“I doubt I can surpass your level of sexiness, brother mine.”

“We shall have to agree to disagree. Now, sausages for dinner?”

As the sun disappeared entirely, they settled down to a rather glorious night together. It wasn’t quiet by any stretch of the imagination, as a major highway ran the length of the campground, but they created a small bubble around themselves, tuning out the sounds of civilisation and concentrating only on the other. The smell of sizzling sausages filled the air, the billy boiled gently away on the side of the fire, and they spoke long on a range of topics, from deep philosophical conundrums, to matters of the most inconsequential concern. Once they had eaten dinner, they attempted to assemble s’mores, both ending up sticky, sweet messes. They shared tender kisses, cleaning the other of their dessert, and reveled in the quiet time they had together. 

The outside temperature continued to drop as their desire for the other began to heat, and they put out the fire using the dregs of the billy can, and retreated to the sanctuary of the van, deliciously warm from the heater. 

As they fell into bed together, tongues and limbs tangled, Mycroft carefully locked every moment of their day together away in a safe space in his mind palace. He knew that a day would come when the weight of the world was on his shoulders, and he would need to be able to unpack these memories and remind himself of such a carefree and happy time.

 


	87. Chapter 87

 

The sound of trucks thundering down the road, blowing their horns woke Sherlock much earlier than he would have liked and he rolled over in the bed. Mycroft was rousing from sleep as well, and he snuggled closer to his brother, relishing in the warmth of the firm body pressed against him.

“Who in their right mind would build a campground next to a bloody highway?” Mycroft groused sleepily.

“The same people who spell it with a K obviously,” he replied.

Mycroft rolled onto his back, looking wide awake now. “I offer the following suggestion,” he began.

Sherlock lay his head on his brother’s chest and pressed a kiss to the pale skin beneath him. “Yes?”

“Since we have had hardly a wink of sleep, let us leave this audible torture site as soon as possible and stop on the way to our destination for a truly horrendous breakfast that one of those chain restaurants offer.”

“The ones that give you half a pig on your plate, along with an entire sugar plantation, and a vat of grease?”

“Yes, precisely.”

Sherlock grinned. “That sounds perfect.” He would never have expected his brother to suggest such a thing, but he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. It was an integral part of any road trip on this corner of the earth to eat at a Denny’s or similar, and he had expected to have to drag his brother, kicking and screaming, into such an establishment. The fact that Mycroft was the one who had suggested it rather made up for the rather loud commencement of their day. He hadn’t told Mycroft that he had a mental checklist of things he wanted to experience during their time here, but each time they did one, he happily crossed it off the list.

The glorious thing about a campervan was that it did not need to be taken down and packed away like a tent did. They packed away the table and chairs, unhooked themselves from the power, took turns brushing their teeth in the tiny bathroom, and then they were on their way, Sherlock at the wheel. It wasn’t long before he spotted a Denny’s and he pulled into the parking lot, finding a space for the van at the far end of the lot where there were no other vehicles parked.

They were shown to a booth and he handed Mycroft one of the laminated menus, fighting to suppress his amusement at the way the older man carefully wiped it over with a serviette before perusing it. His own eyes roamed over the selections and he decided upon a serving of pancakes - another item to cross off his list. He watched as Mycroft’s nose crinkled adorably as he looked at what was on offer, clearly not as willing to consume anything ‘horrendous’ as he had been when they had woken. Eventually he settled on a plain omelette and they gave their orders to a perky serving girl who assured them she would be right back with coffee.

“You’re being a snob, Mycie,” Sherlock teased him cheerfully once they were alone.

“As I once told John, I rarely frequent cafes. I am not used to being surrounded by so much...laminate.”

The detective tried his best to contain his laughter. “Try not to think about it. I’m sure you won’t catch anything you haven’t been vaccinated against,” he said with a wink.

“That has nothing to do with my mind rebelling against the aesthetics, dear brother.”

“Says the man who woke up in a campervan this morning.”

“No,” Mycroft contradicted him, a twinkle in his eyes. “I woke up in _your arms_ . I cannot help it if _you_ were in a campervan.”

He did laugh this time, now that he was sure Mycroft was teasing him back. “I suppose your argument has merit, considering you have much better taste than I do.”

“I agree that some of the interior decorating at Baker Street is a little wanting.”

“It’s a mighty improvement on the flat I had in Montague Street, you have to admit.”

“Sherlock, some of the crack dens I pulled you out of were an improvement over Montague Street.”

“Ouch.”

“The truth does hurt at times. Ah, thank you, my dear.” The waitress had returned and filled their mugs with coffee. “I think I would heartily embrace UHT milk over this concoction,” Mycroft said once she was gone, sniffing at one of the small cups of creamer. He replaced it on the table and resigned himself to black coffee.

“Horrid milk substitutes aside, are you having fun?”

The smile his brother gave him made his heart flutter. “Oh, Sherlock, you have no idea how much I am enjoying this adventure with you.”

Sherlock reached over the table and took his hand. “That’s all that matters to me, Mycie.”

They both managed to survive their breakfast (though Sherlock was rather fearful for their lives when he asked for jam for his pancakes instead of syrup), and then they were on their way again, driving through the most beautiful scenery he could imagine. Mycroft had taken the wheel again, allowing him to gaze wide eyed at the wonders around them. He couldn’t quite get over how _green_ everything was, even though summer had been rather harsh this year. Moss grew on the trunks of trees, turning the forest around them into a monochrome of green, and as they drove higher into the mountains, they began to have dizzying views of that sea of colour.

Then they were pulling into the car park of the Hoffstadt Bluffs visitor centre and they had their first unobstructed view of the rumbling volcano. Both brothers sat in stunned silence as they took in the quiet power and majesty of the damaged peak.

“I had not thought seeing it in person would differ so much to the reels of footage we have viewed over the past months,” Mycroft said in a soft voice.

Sherlock could only agree. As soon as he had learned of his brother’s desire to see the volcano, he had hurried to remedy to gap in his knowledge about it. An explosion when he was but a child of a mountain on the other side of the world was one of the things that had been deleted from his memory, and so he trawled the internet, watching documentaries, and reading first hand accounts of survivors. He had shared the more interesting videos with Mycroft during their nights together, and he learned that his brother had always been fascinated by the fire mountains. It was a stark reminder of how distant they had been for the majority of their lives that he knew so little of the man he loved.

“She is magnificent,” he said in awe.

They made their way down towards the viewing platform so they could drink in the beauty of the sight some more, and Sherlock immediately reached over and took Mycroft’s hand. It was a heady feeling, to show their affection whilst people milled all about them. They drew the occasional look, but that was due to them being a homosexual couple, but he even enjoyed those moments. Every gay couple was subjected to those at one point or another and to be able to experience what a _normal_ couple did - even the ugly sides - gave him a feeling of euphoria. They were luckier than he could have ever hoped that they had so many people in their lives that accepted their love, but it would be foolish in the extreme to believe that acceptance would extend beyond their small bubble of friends. Even the most open minded of their acquaintances would judge them harshly if the truth were known, and it would be the end of Mycroft’s career. They had a small window of time in which they could openly declare they were in a relationship, and he vowed he would enjoy every second of it, not dwell on what would never happen once they were back at home. With that in mind, he slipped an arm about Mycroft’s waist, kissed his cheek, and leaned against his lover as he gazed upon the volcano.


	88. Chapter 88

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who wants to see some amazing, hot, very NSFW art done by Tikatikox inspired by the masquerade ball? Is it you? I bet it's you! ;-)  
> Check it out on [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11735223) or on her [Tumblr](http://childside.tumblr.com/post/163910788213/nsfw-mylock-art).  
> Thank you so much, my sweet!

Their pilot - a handsome man by the name of Dave - stood at the open door to the rear of the chopper and checked they were strapped in correctly. “Not many people get these right the first time,” he said cheerfully as he ran a hand under the shoulder straps of the harness.

“This is a mode of transport we use frequently,” Mycroft replied politely. “Though not as compact as this generally.”

“Military grade?”

“The choppers - yes. Us? No.”

Dave nodded and then gave them a smile. “Shall we get the show started?” The brothers returned the smile and then Dave was shutting the rear door and clipping himself into the pilot’s seat. He gestured at them to put on their headsets, which they did, and the his voice was in their ears. “For most people it’s their first time up in a chopper so I go over the startup process and what to expect, but I think we can skip that part today and make a start right away. So, even though you’re both British, the eruption garnered attention throughout the world. Do either of you remember it?”

“I was only a year old at the time,” Sherlock replied, his voice sounding slightly tinny through the headset. The rotors were starting to spin now and it would have been difficult to hear without them. “My husband is quite a bit older than me though so I’m sure he would.” 

Mycroft couldn’t deny the spark of pleasure that shot through him each time Sherlock referred to him as  _ husband _ . It was something he had come to terms with long ago - that to the world at large they could never be more than just brothers, but to be able to pretend, even for a little while, made him feel a warm glow within. A signed piece of paper, or a relationship recognised by the rest of the world wasn’t necessary for them to know what they meant to the other, but once in awhile it was nice to not have to hide it. “I was eight at the time and I remember seeing the news reports,” he offered. “It was the first time I really experienced the power of a volcano and I was instantly fascinated.”

“I was just a couple years older myself,” Dave informed them as the helicopter began to rise steadily into the air. “Was definitely something that captivated me, and for a while there I did consider becoming a geologist or volcanologist, but in the end, I decided I wanted to be a pilot instead. Joined the military which paid for those expensive flying lessons, and it was there that I preferred flying these birds to the others. When I left the service I did some commercial work for a while but when this job came up, I just couldn’t say no. I’ve been flying over this mountain now for ten years and I love her more than some of my own family.” They were beginning to leave the visitor centre now and were flying out over a wide expanse of what looked to be mud plains. “We’re flying over the course that the pyroclastic flows took, and you can see the north fork of the Toutle River flowing through it. The entire course of the river was changed due to the eruption and subsequent flows and lahars, and we’ll soon be passing over the location of one of the old bridges that was wiped out. If you look to the left, you’ll see the new bridge that was built to cross the new direction the river has taken.”

They continued to fly up the valley, Dave giving them a history lesson as they went, the ominous peak growing ever closer. Far below they spotted the tiny form of elk and it was explained how life had been returning to the area that had closely resembled the moon all those years ago.They flew over lakes that had been created by the blast, and lakes that had been changed by the blast, and then they were flying up over the crater itself. 

The sight took Mycroft’s breath away. He knew the crater was over three kilometres wide and almost a kilometre deep but from their height, it looked tiny in comparison. In the middle of the crater was the lava dome, steam rising steadily from it. There was also steam rising from vents along the rim of the crater, a very timely reminder that the volcano was merely sleeping, rumbling away quietly beneath the surface. A glance across at his brother showed Sherlock was entranced and it wasn’t hard to deduce that the scientist in his brother was itching to be down there, to collect samples, take observations, and listen to the beating heart of the volcano for his very self.

Sooner than either would have liked, they were circling back and leaving the mountain behind. As they were coming into land, Sherlock reached across and squeezed his hand. “Thank you, Mycie, for suggesting we come here” he said sincerely, 

He didn't reply, knowing they had an audience on the headsets, but lifted his brother’s hand and placed a soft kiss to the back of his knuckles.

They both wore large grins as they climbed out of the helicopter and thanked Dave profusely; Mycroft ensuring he gave him a generous tip. They made their way back up to the visitor centre and into the restaurant, deciding that lunch was called for. They were seated in front of the large glass windows, a stunning view of the volcano before them, and they ordered light salads after their rather heavy breakfasts.

“Could you ever even imagine living somewhere with a view like this?” Sherlock asked, his eyes glued to the scene outside.

It was clear he was comparing it to the streets of London and although Mycroft knew his brother loved his city with all his heart, in some regards he found it lacking. “As lovely as this is, I think you would tire quickly of living in such a place. You need the bustle and busyness of a city, love. You would be bored within a week and we both know where that leads.”

Sherlock sighed and pulled his eyes away from the window, locking them on Mycroft’s face. “I suppose. Still, it  _ is _ nice.”

He gave him a fond smile. “There’s nothing to say we can’t come again one day. I’ve had so much time off this past year what with one thing or another -” He paused a moment to gather his composure. The past twelve months had brought many difficult and challenging times. “I need to make up for all of that at work, but having enjoyed myself this much so far, I guarantee you, Sherlock, that regular holidays away with you will be a priority for me.”

The younger man beamed at him and he hoped feverently that if they could take one thing back to London with them, it would be his brother’s new found tendency to smile often. “I shall hold you to that.”

“I rather hope you do.”

Their lunch was served and they ate in companionable silence, only sharing the odd observation here or there. Once they were done Sherlock excused himself to the bathroom, and Mycroft headed into the gift shop, picking up a few small trinkets for Rosie. He added a little something as well for Sherlock and paid for the items quickly, meeting Sherlock at the entrance at the same time. “Shall we head off?” he asked.

Sherlock nodded and they walked out to where the van was parked. “Do you think we’ll make the border tonight?”

“I doubt it,” Mycroft said, glancing at his watch. “But there’s no hurry, is there?”

The detective shook his head. “Not at all.” 

Sherlock decided he wanted to drive and Mycroft happily climbed into the passenger seat. He toyed with when to give the gift to Sherlock and decided it may as well be now. He pulled the small bottle out and handed it over with little ceremony. “For you to study when we get home,” he said simply.

Sherlock took the small bottle of volcanic ash with a soft expression in his eyes. Both brothers knew that the younger man could probably rattle off the chemical composition from memory from the articles he had read recently, and had no need to study it himself, but this would help keep the magic of their holiday alive for just a little longer. It was a simple gesture but one he obviously cherished and he pulled Mycroft into a crushing hug. When he pulled back, his eyes were damp. “I would never have pegged you for a romantic,” Sherlock said, tucking the bottle into the pocket of his jeans to keep close. “But please, Mycie - don't ever fucking change.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the history lesson today...I was fascinated by my trip to the volcano and highly recommend you go and visit her if you're ever in the area. The helicopter tour was one of the most amazing experiences of my life. I couldn't NOT have the boys do one!


	89. Chapter 89

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [More lovely art](http://childside.tumblr.com/image/163942140353) from Tikatikox from the boys' breakfast adventure!

They continued to drive north through the mountains, both dazzled by the sights, and when they crossed White Pass and saw there was still patches of snow clinging to the ground at the very top of a deserted ski slope, realised that summer had only been a passing fancy at these high altitudes. 

The afternoon was drawing to an end when Sherlock asked Mycroft to search for a place to stay for the night and he directed the younger man to another KOA site, this time in Ellensburg. The ground was almost empty, and they drove down to their site by the river, glad for the semblance of privacy. They hopped out and Sherlock was grateful to stretch out, not used to being behind the wheel for so long. He closed his eyes and reached his arms out above his head, enjoying a full body stretch, and when he opened them again he saw Mycroft’s eyes glued to his stomach. “What?” he asked, a little shocked by the hungry expression on the older man’s face.

Mycroft crossed to him and cupped the back of his head with one hand, pulling him into a kiss, while the other hand reached under his t shirt and lay flat against his belly. “You,” he said as they broke apart, “have the sexiest stomach I have ever laid eyes on.”

Sherlock’s forehead crinkled as he regarded him with skepticism. “It’s just a stomach.”

“Yes, love, but it’s  _ your _ stomach. The way it peeks out as your shirt rides up, the hollow of your hip bones, the slight V that runs down to another of my favourite areas…” Mycroft stepped back and looked down at the area he was describing and Sherlock could see there was a bulge beginning to grow in his brother’s trousers. 

“We’re going to be a little late making a fire tonight, aren’t we?” he asked with a grin.

In reply, Mycroft just grabbed his hand and dragged him into the campervan. They didn't make it further inside than the small kitchenette, as the older man pressed Sherlock up against it and then sank to his knees, kissing his way reverently over his tummy, before popping the button on his jeans and sliding them down his hips. Sherlock’s head dropped back as he felt the warmth of his brother’s mouth surround his cock, and soon lost himself to the talented tongue. He spilled his release down Mycroft’s throat and then reversed their positions so he could return the favour, enjoying every small gasp and moan he drew from his brother as he worked the heavy cock against his tongue. Once he’d reduced Mycroft to a shaking, quivering mess, he swallowed what was freely offered to him and then got to his feet, tucking himself away. They shared another kiss, and then laughed quietly together.

“I had no idea that at this age I would find myself having such an active sex life,” Mycroft admitted.

“Yes, well you can’t know  _ everything _ .”

“True. So, shall we get a fire going? Already there’s a chill on the air.”

“We’d already have one going if I hadn’t had been waylaid.”

“Yes, but being waylaid was much more important.”

“If it’s you waylaying me, it’s  _ always _ the most important thing.”

“Good to know.” 

They shared a smile and then left the confines of the van to begin setting up for their evening. They had bought a bag of firewood when they had checked in, and Sherlock pulled it out of the storage compartment on the side of the van, whilst Mycroft connected the power, and began setting out the table and chairs again. As he crouched over the firepit, Mycroft sat down, looking at his watch. “It’s too late to call back home now, but we should do in the morning,” he suggested.

Sherlock hummed in agreement. “I was thinking we could Skype Rosie. I think she’d like to see us. I’m pretty sure I have coverage enough to do that from here.” 

“Oh, that’s a wonderful idea.”

“Of course it is - all of my ideas are wonderful,” he quipped.

“Need I remind you that you wanted us to sleep in a tent, brother mine?”

“I have absolutely no recollection about what you’re on about.”

“None at all?”

“Nope, doesn’t ring a bell. You must have imagined it.”

“Perhaps in my dotage I’m losing my marbles?”

“I shall commence looking for a suitable care facility immediately.”

“You’re too kind.”

“One must look after family, Mycroft. I’ll make sure their are adequate staff on hand to feed you once your faculties have diminished entirely. Can’t have you forgetting to eat.”

“And will you visit?”

“Well, I’m terribly busy but perhaps I could spare an hour or two every month or so.”

“If my poor mind would allow me to, I would be delighted.”

~~~~~~~~~

“ _ Mycie! Sher Sher! _ ” Rosie was sitting on John’s lap in front of the laptop, though ‘sitting’ was a relative term. The child was bouncing around with excitement and the brothers saw John wince as one of her elbows connected with his groin.

“ _ Rosie, settle down! They haven’t called just to watch you jump around like an idiot. _ ”

“Do you want us to show you where we are right now?” Sherlock asked, holding the phone in front of he and Mycroft so they could both be captured by the video. They were sitting outside on top of the picnic table, both bundled up in their big jackets against the cold. 

“ _ Yes, pwease! _ ”

He jumped off his perch on the table and began to pan around the site. “That’s the van we’re driving around in...and this is our campfire... and this is the river...and that’s Mycie’s bum!”

Rosie giggled hysterically as Sherlock zoomed in on Mycroft, who was bent over the fire to nestle the billy can in the coals. The older man turned around and rolled his eyes at his brother. “Are you two quite done laughing at my posterior?”

“ _ What Mycie doing? _ ” Rosie asked.

“He’s boiling some water so we can make tea”

“ _ Kettle? _ ”she asked, confused.

Mycroft laughed. “It’s a very old fashioned kettle, my little menace. Sherlock is adamant that we ‘rough it’ whilst we’re here.”

“ _ Are you sure you want to come between Mycroft and his tea, Sherlock? _ ” John asked.

“I’m monitoring the situation, John, never you mind. If he begins to show homicidal tendencies, I shall reevaluate.”

 “ _ I suppose we can always have your remains shipped back here for burial. Are you two having fun? _ ”

“It’s amazing,” Sherlock said, his tone indicating he could add a string of synonyms to his description if called upon.

“ _ What about you, Mycroft? Enjoying yourself, despite ‘roughing it’? _ ”

Mycroft chuckled. “There are, I admit, a few luxuries from home that I’m missing, but they cannot diminish my enjoyment.”

“ _ That’s good to hear. And how’s the sternum? I know you still had a few niggles before you left, and I’m guessing the events in Vancouver wouldn’t have helped much. _ ”

“It seems to be fine, John. If I sleep on my stomach for any length of time it gets a tad achey but otherwise, I have no complaints.”

“ _ That’s good to hear. And Sherlock, ribs doing okay? _ ”

“Yes, John,” he told his friend honestly, “I haven’t had any issues. I appear to be healed up all the way.”

“ _ Just take it easy though, yeah? They can be deceiving. _ ”

“We shall do our utmost to ensure we do not reverse the healing process, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft promised solemnly. 

“ _ Good, that’s what I like to hear. Now, Rosie has been very patient but she wants to hear all about your adventure to the volcano. _ ”

The child cheered and Sherlock grinned. He had been teaching Rosie about volcanoes before he had left and though she didn't understand a lot of it, she was excited he was going to see a ‘fire mountain’. He re-assumed his perch on the picnic table and began to weave his tale.

 


	90. Chapter 90

They didn’t get far - distance wise - the next few days. They meandered around, stopping to see whatever took their fancy, and finding a new place to park the van well before the sun went down. It was extremely relaxing to be without a schedule, to do what they wanted simply because they  _ wanted _ to. Mycroft found himself relaxing more and more and even found himself growing fond of ‘roughing it’. Whilst not something he would enjoy for prolonged periods of time, there was something charming about making tea from a billy, and he found himself humming amiably as he pottered around the campfire each morning.

They crossed back into Canada near Oroville and continued on their slightly deviating route through the Rockies. They had struck lucky with the weather, the days bright with sunshine, the sky a glorious cyan backdrop for the colourful palette of yellows, reds, and oranges of the falling leaves. The nights were chilly but they created their own heat as they made love for hours after retiring for the evening. If possible, they seemed to have grown even closer, their bond developing into something that would never be broken. It was the happiest Mycroft could ever remember being and he thanked Sherlock profusely for pushing for this particular holiday.

They stopped at Revelstoke on day six of their adventure to resupply and then got back on the road, stopping not far up the highway at a resort that offered camping sites. They discovered the powered sites did not allow for a fire, and since Sherlock had grown very attached to his nightly campfire, Mycroft chose to forgo the luxury of heating to indulge his little brother. The upside to this was they were directed to a very isolated part of the property and after a quick scout around, discovered there were no other campers in shouting distance.

“Well,  _ that’s _ convenient,” Sherlock said with a grin as they began to set up for the night. The sun was still shining but the temperature was dropping and his cheeks were tinged a delicate shade of pink from the cold.

“Oh? How so?” Mycroft asked.

“I have plans,” Sherlock replied mysteriously.

Mycroft did not discover what these plans were until much later. They had made a simple dinner of chops and corn cobs, and then had sat around the fire talking quietly and discussing the pamphlets they had been given about how to avoid bear attacks. 

“It would be just our luck that we survive our relatively dangerous jobs only to be eaten by a bear whilst on holiday,” Sherlock mused.

“I doubt a bear would find us all that appetising. That secret stash of Oreos you have would be more to its taste I think.”

“It’s not a  _ secret _ stash,” Sherlock protested. “More like... strategically stored.”

“I see. And are there any of your strategically stored biscuits left to share with me?”

“Well...a few. I had to make sure they were thoroughly taste tested before you had any to ensure you weren’t accidentally poisoned.”

“You’re too kind, brother dear.”

Sherlock grinned and jumped up from his camp chair and disappeared inside the camper. A few minutes later he emerged, bringing not only the biscuits, but a plush picnic rug. He lay it on the grass on the other side of the fire and then flopped himself down onto it, patting the ground next to him in invitation. Mycroft acquiesced and joined him on the rug. “What’s this then?” he asked curiously.

“The sun is setting, and the sky is clear. It’s the perfect night to do some stargazing.”

“Won’t it be a little cold?”

“That’s what the fire is for. Besides, I’m sure I can keep you warm.”

“I’m sure you can,” Mycroft murmured in a sultry voice, leaning in close and taking a kiss. 

They fell back together on the rug, arms around each other as they shared languid kisses, the half eaten packet of Oreos forgotten beside them. The light faded rapidly as the sun disappeared behind the mountains and one by one the stars peeked out. Pulling away from Sherlock’s plush lips with a gentle smile on his face, Mycroft arranged himself so he was comfortably settled on his back. Sherlock lay next to him and they tangled their fingers together as they gazed up at the darkening sky. 

“I haven’t done this in years,” he said quietly, his free arm behind his head. “I forgot how lovely it can be.”

“When was the last time?” Sherlock asked.

“Oh, it must have been when I was a teenager.” He pursed his lips as he thought. “Ah yes, it was my one and only horribly awkward time with a boy from school.”

“Oh?” There was an odd catch to Sherlock’s voice that Mycroft couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t jealousy, but something else. “Go on,” he said, rolling onto his side and trailing a finger over Mycroft’s taut bicep.

“It was with Roderick Hannah whom I had been tutoring in Chemistry.”

“Mmm, I remember him. He used to come round twice a week after school.”

“Yes, well he’d passed his exams with flying colours but insisted on one last session. I think he must have developed somewhat of a crush on me, but I was oblivious to it of course. He came around and brought with him a picnic blanket and a basket of food and said it was to celebrate. I told him that passing a high school exam wasn’t exactly something worthwhile celebrating so he said that instead it could be his way of showing his appreciation for my efforts. I decided to humour him and he led me down to the far side of the field. The sun was setting and we sat and watched the stars for a long time. I’m sure he thought it romantic, but I thought it horribly boring - we had  _ nothing _ in common and conversation was non-existent, other than a few incorrect comments from Roderick about the constellations. And then he made his move. My first kiss, fumbling and sloppy and before I knew it he had my trousers open and was groping me. My body responded - as would any sixteen year old’s would and then he was sucking me off.” He grimaced. “It was all rather toothy and horrid but I came in about a minute from the novelty alone I think. He obviously wanted me to reciprocate but I was saved by Mummy calling for me. I stood and said -”

“Thanks for the astronomy lesson,” Sherlock finished for him.

Mycroft stared at his brother in shock. “How did you know that?”

The younger man stared at the fire, the blush on his cheeks evident even in the flickering light. “I may have followed you that night.”

“Sherlock! Oh my God, you  _ saw _ that?”

“Yes.”

“You were  _ nine _ !”

“Yes, well I didn’t quite understand what it was that I had seen,” Sherlock admitted. “Not until some years later when puberty hit.”

“I am so sorry,” Mycroft said, aghast at this turn of events.

“Don’t be,” Sherlock told him earnestly. “Those memories kept me company on a few lonely nights.”

Mycroft paused, his head cocked to the side. “What do you mean?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Obvious, really. I used it as wank fodder.”

“Yes, but, you said yourself that your attraction for me only developed after Serbia.”

“And? It was pre-internet, Mycie. It’s not like I had a collection of easily accessible porn at my fingertips. It was that and the underwear pages of the Primark catalogue that Mummy left laying around that got me through.” He rolled over all the way onto his stomach and propped himself up on his elbows so he could look Mycroft in the eye. “If you’re beginning to worry that me seeing that...damaged me...in some way, then please don’t. As I said, my attraction to you didn't develop until much later and it would have done whether I had seen that interaction or not.”

Mycroft wasn’t too sure about that but decided to allow sleeping dogs to lie. At least now he could identify Sherlock’s odd behaviour at the start of his story - it had been recognition. “So what do you want to do now?” he asked, thinking it best to change the subject.

Sherlock of course, would do no such thing. HIs hand reached for Mycroft’s trousers and he purred, “Oh, I intend on rewriting those memories into something  _ much _ more pleasurable.”

 


	91. Chapter 91

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting, silly puter was updating!

There was absolutely  _ nothing _ , Sherlock decided, more beautiful than his brother by firelight. Shadows danced across his creamy skin, softening the sharpness of his hip bones as Sherlock tugged his trousers down over his thighs. He bent down to nuzzle at the hollow of one hip, feeling the skin beneath his lips break out in goosebumps. He moved so he was straddling Mycroft’s legs, hoping his body heat would keep the older man warm, and then folded himself down until he was gently exhaling hot breath over the shaft of his brother’s very prominent erection. Mycroft inhaled sharply at the first touch of Sherlock’s tongue to the velvet flesh of his shaft, and his hands fisted the material of the picnic blanket at his sides. 

As much as he wanted to linger, to take his time and lavish his attentions on the hot flesh until Mycroft was begging for more, a cold breeze had picked up and Sherlock was loathe to make Mycroft uncomfortable. Fast didn’t necessarily mean it couldn’t be good and so he utilised every bit of data he had ever gathered about what Mycroft liked. He had made extensive studies in this area and considered himself a bit of an expert. Grasping the shaft in one hand, he dragged the flat of his tongue across the head, pressing down firmly as he passed over the slit. He did this several times and then wet his lips and slid them down until the head of Mycroft’s cock was hitting the back of his throat. One hand dropped down to fondle the older man’s balls and he rolled the heavy sac around in his palm, then he moved his hand even further back, using his fingers to press firmly against the perineum. Mycroft was gasping above him, and his hips bucked, pushing his cock even deeper. Sherlock didn't try and hold him down to prevent that, but hummed happily, encouraging him to do it again. Mycroft thrust upwards again, and suddenly Sherlock wanted more, wanted to be used utterly. He pulled off Mycroft and then urged him up, to stand before him. 

“Fuck my mouth, Mycie,” he begged as he knelt before him. “Please.”

Mycroft gazed down at him, a hand coming down to cup his face, his thumb brushing over his cheek. “Are you sure?”

“ _ Yes _ ,” he said in a breathy tone. He wanted nothing more than to be a tool for Mycroft’s pleasure; to submit entirely and be used however his brother wanted; longed for it to be hard and rough.

Something of his thoughts must have shown on his expression, as Mycroft gripped his hair tightly in his hands and tilted his head back. He let go with one hand and grabbed his cock, guiding it inside, pushing in deeply and then just holding it there. Sherlock breathed through his nose, relaxing his throat and relishing in the tightness of the thick cock pushing at the back of his mouth. After a long moment, Mycroft pulled out, pausing with the tip resting on Sherlock’s plush lips, “Ready?” he asked, a final check that this was what his younger brother wanted.

Sherlock’s tongue darted out and licked at the pre-come pooling at the tip. “Oh, yes.”

With long delicate fingers wrapped tightly into his curls, holding his head still, Mycroft thrust inside roughly. Sherlock couldn’t hold back the moan of desire as his face was thoroughly fucked. He rolled his eyes upwards, catching a glance of the look of abandon on Mycroft’s face. His normally ice blue eyes looked almost black in the flickering light of the fire, an otherworldly glow to his face. He growled low in his chest and Sherlock could picture what it must look like from Mycroft’s vantage point - his baby brother, kneeling before him, his heart shaped mouth stretched obscenely wide as a thick cock slid between plush lips, not bound or restrained but still entirely at his mercy. His own cock twitched in his jeans at the visual, his underwear beginning to soak through as pre-ejaculate pulsed from the tip.

Tears began to leak from his eyes as his mouth was used and he blinked them away, not wanting anything to come between himself and the sight of Mycroft fucking his mouth. Spit dribbled down his chin and he swallowed as best he could, but the action just sent more saliva dripping over his lips. His jaw began to burn from being held unnaturally wide but he ignored the sensation, choosing instead to focus on the feel of hot flesh passing over his lips, the salty taste on the back of his tongue, and the delicious pressure of his throat being filled. 

The relentless thrusts began to stutter and suddenly Mycroft pulled his cock from Sherlock’s mouth and then hot jets of come were spurting over his face. He closed his eyes and held his mouth open, catching some of it on his tongue and swallowing greedily. He sensed the movement as Mycroft sank to his knees in front of him and then gentle hands were on his face. He opened his eyes, the lashes of his left eye thick with seminal fluid. Mycroft reached inside the pocket of the jacket he still wore and removed a handkerchief and then delicately cleaned his face. They remained silent the entire time, a bubble of loving aftercare that needed no words. Once he was clean, Mycroft kissed him, deep and passionate. “That,” he said as he pulled away, “was sublime.”

Sherlock grinned crookedly. “Yes, yes it was. You have no idea how fucking hot I found that.”

“The fact that you let me do it was ridiculously erotic,” Mycroft adjoined.

“Anytime, brother dear, anytime.”

“Now, we seem to have a small problem that still requires our attention.” Mycroft arched a brow and glanced down at the tent Sherlock was pitching.

“ _ Small _ ?”

“Merely a turn of phrase, my love. It in no way reflects the size of your package.”

“You are a man of literature, Mycie - I do expect better from you.”

“My most profuse apologies, brother dear. Whatever can I do to make up for my grievous error?”

A feral grin spread over Sherlock’s face and he pushed Mycroft down onto his back. “I believe it’s  _ my _ turn to put your mouth to use.”

“That sounds delightful.”

He shed his jeans, kicking them off as they caught around his ankles, then moved to kneel to either side of Mycroft’s shoulders. He fell forward, his hands bracing himself up and fed his cock into Mycroft’s mouth. He was still on edge from before and it only took him five thrusts into the warm, wet cavern of his brother’s mouth before he was crying out, the sounds of his release lost to the wide open sky above them. “Fuck, sorry,” he panted as he rolled off him and flopped down at his side.

“Whatever for?” Mycroft asked, puzzled. 

“For coming faster than a pubescent teen.”

His brother chuckled. “Never apologise for that, Sherlock. I get deliriously happy knowing that what we do together turns you on so much.”

They remained there for a short while, their post-orgamsic glows fading, and then it was too chilly to remain in a state of undress any longer. They dressed and Mycroft put the billy onto the fire to make them a cup of tea, and Sherlock disappeared into the van, returning with the blanket from the bed. Once they had tea, they settled back down onto the rug, this time with the blanket draped over them, and they spent the rest of the night gazing at the stars and talking quietly.  

 


	92. Chapter 92

“It’s like looking at a postcard,” Sherlock said in a hushed voice from beside him.

Mycroft could only nod in agreement, lost for words at the majestic sight before him. They had seen many beautiful scenes on their drive - snow capped mountains, gushing waterfalls, green valleys that stretched as far as the eye could see, but this was by far the most picturesque. The brothers stood on the jetty, gazing out at the glorious wonder of Lake Louise. The water was a shimmering blue-green (Mycroft thought it matched the colour of Sherlock’s eyes perfectly), a trio of snowy peaks, one in front of the other from biggest to smallest, and a sparkling glacier all providing a breathtaking backdrop. 

There were quite a number of tourists milling about and Sherlock pressed one into service as their photographer. They got several photos of them in front of the lake and Sherlock immediately emailed one to Father. They then continued to stroll along the lakeside, taking in the view.

“I have a surprise for you,” Sherlock told him suddenly.

Mycroft glanced over at him. “Oh?”

His brother quirked a smile at him. “I think you’ll enjoy it, even though you’ve adapted much better than I thought you would have.”

“Adapted? Adapted to what?”

“Our campervan of course, and what you call ‘roughing’ it.”

Mycroft shook his head. “I still can’t believe you originally suggested camping.”

“Why not?” He looked genuinely puzzled.

“It’s no secret you like your little luxuries, Sherlock.” Mycroft waved encompassingly at his outfit - casual at first glance but on closer inspection, all of it designer brands. “I can’t imagine you sleeping in a sleeping bag on the ground.” Sherlock stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head and turned and walked away. Mycroft hurried after him, unsure what he had said wrong. He caught his brother’s arm and halted his escape. “Sherlock? What’s wrong? What did I say?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Clearly it does! I’ve upset you.” He hated seeing the hurt on his brother’s face and knowing that he had unwittingly been the cause.

“I guess it’s easy to forget reality when you view it from the grainy footage of CCTV,” he replied, cryptic and bitter.

It suddenly hit Mycroft and he cursed himself for his careless words, and yet he couldn’t deny feeling exasperated at Sherlock’s reaction. His time on the streets had been  _ his _ choice. No matter how drugged he was, or how low he fell, Mycroft had made it clear he was  _ always  _ welcome at his house. When his brother had told him to fuck off, he had booked hotel rooms for him, only to watch as the young man had glowered rebelliously at the nearest camera and then made his way into the alley nearest the hotel to bed down for the night. There had not been a single instance where Sherlock had been forced to sleep on the streets - he had been homeless very much by choice. 

The older man knew that it would be a very silly thing to reveal his thoughts on the matter now. The last thing he wanted to do was to get into an argument with Sherlock and ruin the fun they had been having. They were standing in one of the most beautiful places on earth, and having a fight would tar their memories of this time. So he swallowed down his rebuttal and reached out to squeeze Sherlock’s hand. “I’m sorry - I wasn’t thinking.”

There was a long moment where Mycroft was sure that Sherlock would shake off his hand and storm away. He held his breath, not wanting to break the extremely delicate moment. And then after what felt like an eternity, his brother turned and pulled him into an embrace. “No, it’s me who’s sorry, Mycie. That wasn’t fair of me.”

He made a concerted effort to not show his absolute shock at the apology - despite having been romantically involved for a year now, Sherlock never shied away from an opportunity to be the obstinate little brother. This was definitely new ground and he was going to cherish it. Mycroft pulled him in for a kiss, a thrill going through him at the action. It wouldn’t be long before they were back in London and unable to be openly affectionate so he was going to make the most of it. “So, you mentioned a surprise?” he prompted.

Sherlock gave him an almost shy smile and then turned them around and gestured grandly at the chateau. “I booked us a suite. We have two nights in a luxurious lake view room.”

Mycroft’s jaw dropped open. He tried to speak but found himself at a loss for words. The thought of a hot shower in which he wouldn’t feel like he was trapped in a sardine can; of high thread count sheets; of comfortable armchairs that didn't have seatbelts; of genuine privacy - it was too wonderful to contemplate. 

“You approve?” Sherlock asked, a smirk on his gorgeous lips.

Mycroft pulled him in for a crushing kiss. “Oh, God  _ yes _ .”

Sherlock laughed and linked their fingers together. “Shall we go and check in?”

They were shown to their room and Mycroft found his jaw dropping. He had stayed in luxury rooms before but this was one of the more showy ones. Over two levels, the bottom floor had a very comfortable sitting area, and a dining table that overlooked the lake. A spiral staircase led to the upper floor where a king sized bed lay in wait before the double doors that opened onto a balcony. He poked his head into the bathroom and was disappointed to find a combined bath and shower but since the bath looked big enough for two grown adults, he found himself in a forgiving mood. He came back out and saw Sherlock out on the balcony and he joined him, standing behind him and wrapping his arms around his waist.

“Thank you, Sherlock. This was such a lovely idea.”

He could see a blush spread over his brother’s cheeks. “I’m rather thinking of it as our honeymoon.” he admitted quietly, as if he hoped Mycroft wouldn’t actually hear him. 

“Oh, Sherlock. I would marry you in a heartbeat if we could. But we don’t need a piece of paper to validate our love. While it would be nice to be able to call you my husband, right now you are my  _ everything _ .”

Sherlock turned in his arms and gave him a gentle kiss. “And you are mine, Mycie. I just wish…”

“I know, love, I know.” He held him close and they stood together and gazed out over the lake. “So, did you have anything planned for us whilst we’re here? Or are we going to spend the entire time in that lovely bed?”

“Oh, there will be  _ a lot _ of time spent in that bed, have no fear. However, I did think we could fit in a few activities in between bouts of lovemaking.”

“And what would they be?”

“There’s a few trails that I think would be nice to walk, and they’re still hiring out canoes so perhaps we could give that a go?”

“How terribly romantic,” he murmured, leaning in to give his brother another kiss.

“I have my moments,” Sherlock admitted. He turned and looked back over his shoulder into the room. “Shall we give the bed a test run?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So although I've been to Lake Louise several times, I haven't actually stayed at the Chateau and was reduced to using my good friend, Mr Google. If I got it completely wrong, let's just call it artistic licence lol


	93. Chapter 93

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's double post Sunday!

Their run of good weather ended and the next day dawned bleak and grey. Sherlock had rolled out of the large bed and padded across to the double doors. He cracked them open and felt a blast of icy air hit him and he squeezed through as small a gap as he could manage so as not to make the room freezing. He had pulled on his pyjama bottoms but hadn’t bothered with anything else and the bracing air made him shiver and break out in goosebumps. He allowed the cold to blast away the last remnants of sleep and he stood and gazed down over the majestic lake. She lost none of her beauty under the stormy looking clouds that roiled overhead - in fact, the deep turquoise of her waters seemed to darken to unseen depths. He hoped the rain would hold off until the afternoon so they could spend the morning doing one of their planned activities, though if it didn't, he was sure they could entertain themselves _somehow_ in their room.

Grinning to himself at the thought of the other surprise he had in store for Mycie, he let himself back inside. The sight of his brother almost took his breath away and he took a moment to drink it in. The older man was curled up in the sex rumpled blankets, his hair mussed, and a dark lovebite adorning one pale shoulder that peaked out of the blanket. He slowly reached for his phone and then (after turning it to silent and ensuring the flash was turned off) snapped a photo. He knew it was dangerous to have such compromising photos of his brother, but he couldn’t help himself. This was a sight he wanted to be reminded of whenever he needed.

Sherlock crawled back into bed, knowing he wouldn’t sleep anymore but just wanting to be close to Mycroft. His brother roused as cold skin was pressed against his back and he rolled over, blinking sleepily at the younger man. “Morning,” he said quietly.

Sherlock bent his head forward and pressed a kiss to the bruise on his shoulder. “Morning,” he greeted him. “Looks like rain today, but it might hold off long enough to go canoeing.”

“I’m sure a little rain wouldn’t hurt us,” Mycroft said, surprising him.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Says the man who perpetually carries an umbrella.”

“Yes, but I left it at home, didn't I? Besides, you know why I carry it.”

“And yet it still serves as a brolly as well.”

“Well, I’d be silly to only make use of _some_ of its functions.”

“I could continue to argue the point but instead I’ll just file away your words and throw them back at you if you complain if we get caught in a shower.”

“Fair enough.”

They laughed together and then shared a kiss, before rising and dressing for the day. After heading down to breakfast, they ventured outside to see if they had any chance of beating the rain. The clouds were still a dark grey but there didn’t seem to be the heaviness in the air to indicate a huge downpour was imminent. They made their way to where the canoes were hired out, surprised to find there wasn’t a queue. “It’s such a popular activity that even with the weather, I thought it would be busy,” Sherlock commented.

Mycroft shrugged. “It’s still early - perhaps the crowds will come later?”

He didn’t question their luck, but instead engaged the man working there. They were provided with lifejackets and a quick rundown of what to do if the canoe capsized, and then they were clambering into the small craft and pushing away from the dock.

Mycroft turned and looked over his shoulder at Sherlock, giving him a grin but not saying anything. Sherlock grinned back, and they began to paddle their way through the stunning water. Silence fell over them as they glided along, the only sound the soft splash as an oar dipped beneath the water. The mountains loomed to either side of them, snow at the very tops of the peaks, the stubborn remnants of the previous winter.

They were close to reaching the far side and they both rested the oars on the side of the canoe and just drifted peacefully. “I hadn’t known I needed this,” Mycroft murmured.

Sherlock hummed in agreement, not wanting to break the spell with unnecessary speech. It was an almost zen-like feeling, one he was very unfamiliar with in a non-drugged state, but he felt his whole mind quieting. He relished the silence, and could see his brother felt the same way. The world did quieten when they were together, but the buzz never went away entirely. It seemed to have faded completely out here, where they were tiny specks upon the vast blue waters, dwarfed by the towering peaks around them.

They drifted for a long while but when their time was coming to an end, they turned the craft and began to make their way back to the dock. It began to drizzle as they rowed, and before they reached their destination, the skies opened and they were caught in a heavy downpour. He could hear Mycroft chuckling from in front of him and Sherlock couldn’t help but share in his delight. This was so far from their everyday lives that no matter the inconvenience, he would treasure every moment.

They reached the dock and bobbed against the wood, and they handed the oars over to the attendant who came to assist them. Standing up in the wobbling canoe, they prepared to climb out. Sherlock grasped for the railing but found his hand slipping on the wet wood and he suddenly felt himself pitching backwards. His arms windmilled as he fought for balance, but then he felt a strong grasp on his forearm and he saw Mycroft was steadying him. He laughed, realising how close he’d come to taking a dip, and felt his cheeks heat. He moved to try again, but his feet caught in the bottom of the canoe, and this time as he stumbled backwards, there was no stopping him. Mycroft had been holding onto his arm and in dismay, he realised he was pulling his brother overboard with him.

They hit the frigid waters with a splash and Sherlock felt the wind leave his lungs in shock. He gasped as he immediately bobbed back to the surface thanks to his lifejacket and looked around wildly for Mycroft. The older man was a short distance away and he was spluttering, clearing water from his throat. “Fuck, Mycie,” he cried. “Are you okay?”

His brother nodded. “J...j...just c...c...c...cold,” he stammered as he trod water.

“Sirs, to me!” The shout came from the dock, to one side of where the canoe was resting. The attendant, a man in his early twenties with pockmarked cheeks, was kneeling next to where a ladder descended into the water and he was holding out a long pole. They began to paddle their way over, and Sherlock was horrified at how quickly he was losing feeling in his extremities. He grabbed at the pole, his numb hands struggling to grip it, and turned to see how Mycroft was faring. His brother was only a few feet away and as soon as he had swum closer, Sherlock linked his free arm with Mycroft’s and the attendant began to haul them in. They reached the ladder and he gestured for Mycroft to go first, giving his bum a firm push from below to help him up the ladder. Once his lover was free from the icy embrace of the lake, Sherlock pulled himself up the ladder, grateful as the man working there leaned down to help him out.

A second attendee was running out of the wooden building that served as their office, grey woollen blankets in hand. “Are you alright? Take these. You’ll want to pop inside and take off as many wet clothes as you can,” she told them. “Then wrap yourselves tightly in the blankets. Are you staying at the Chateau?”

Sherlock could only nod, his teeth having began to chatter unceasingly, and his body wracked with violent shivers.

“Once you’re done, I’ll drive you back up there. I’ll phone ahead and have the doctor meet you.”

He shook his head. “We’ll b...b...be fine,” he stammered. “N...n...no doct...t...tor.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but it’s company policy. Can’t have you developing hypothermia and suing us now, can we?” She said it with a smile but it was clear the policy was in place for a reason.

They took the blankets and made their way into the building, and Sherlock stripped down to his underwear. “I thought you’d take it all off,” Mycroft told him and he kicked away his sopping wet trousers. “Or do you save being naked in bed linen exclusively for Buckingham Palace?” His voice was still shuddery but he seemed able to string an entire sentence together now.

“I didn’t want you to get any untimely hard ons,” he quipped back, his jaw beginning to ache from his chattering teeth. He wrapped the blanket around himself and rubbed at his arms through the wool.

“Sherlock, I am so bloody cold that it is a physical impossibility for me to be to get an erection right now.”

“That’s not good. How do you think you’ll fare later?”

“I’m sure once you’ve warmed me up, I’ll manage just fine.”

“Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s get back so I can start getting you warm.”

 


	94. Chapter 94

Once they had convinced the resort doctor that they were both fine, they were allowed to return to their room. Sherlock strode regally through the opulent foyer to the grand staircase, ignoring the stares they were drawing due to their ragged state. He glanced over and saw that Mycroft too had drawn a wall around him, wearing his blanket like a cloak of dignity that replaced that that he had lost when he’d tumbled into the lake after Sherlock. 

They made it back to their room and then as soon as they were through the door, Sherlock shimmied out of his wet pants. “They hold the chill horribly well,” he sniffed as he kicked them to one side.

Mycroft was at the controls on the wall and was cranking up the heating. His long fingers had a blue-ish tinge to them and so did his very kissable lips. Once he was done, they wordlessly headed upstairs. “Bath?” Mycroft asked.

As much as he really didn't want to see another body of water for quite some time, Sherlock had to admit that the idea of a hot soak in the tub was rather appealing. He needed to ensure that Mycroft was warm and comfortable so he could proceed with his plan for the night. He could still do it in the camper, he supposed, but it would be much more comfortable here in the hotel room. 

While Mycroft was busy filling the bath, Sherlock went to his suitcase and found the items he’d hidden away before they’d left. He took them out and placed them on the carpet on his side of the bed, hiding them from view. He had been surprised, really, that he’d not been pulled aside by security at the airport, though what would they have said? It was clear they weren’t weapons...

Mycroft called out from the bathroom, telling him the bath was ready, and leaving the blanket draped over an armchair, Sherlock made his way over. Mycroft had already sunk down into the bath and Sherlock stepped in, wincing as the hot water hit his frozen feet. “Fuck,” he swore, pulling his foot out instinctively. 

“The water isn’t really that hot,” his brother said, a matching grimace on his face. “It just feels that way.”

The detective nodded and hesitantly dipped his toes back in. It was still uncomfortable but he decided he would follow in his brother’s footsteps and take the plunge - quite literally. He stepped all the way in and sat down, ignoring the stinging pain that rolled out over his skin. It only took a minute or so and it faded, and he slowly began to warm up. He slumped back against the back of the bath, his legs twining with Mycroft’s and they soaked together in silence. Once the water began to cool, they got out and dried themselves but before Mycroft could get dressed, Sherlock pulled him in for a kiss. “I have another surprise for you,” he murmured.

“Well, aren’t I lucky?” Mycroft said with a smile.

“Come with me.” Sherlock took his hand and led him through to the bedroom and sat him down on the edge of the bed. He bent over and kissed him again, soft and sweet. “How’s your chest?” he asked, settling his hand gently on Mycroft’s sternum.

“It’s absolutely fine,” he assured him.

“Good. Right, for now, if I do anything you don’t like, tell me to stop. Once we get to a certain point, I’ll check in with you and we’ll sort out a nonverbal signal.”

The older man arched a delicate brow. “Intriguing.”

“Just delivering on a promise I made what seems like an eternity ago.” He moved around the bed and retrieved the first item from his stash - several lengths of black silken bondage rope. He held them up for his brother to see and noticed as Mycroft’s pupils dilated and his breath hitched. He grinned wickedly and moved to stand in between the older man’s knees. “I see you approve.”

Mycroft seemed to be robbed of speech as he made a small croaking noise as he nodded vigorously. 

Sherlock chuckled and gestured for him to shuffle back onto the bed proper. He climbed onto the bed himself and kneeled over his brother, trailing the end of the rope over the creamy skin as he mused out loud. “Now, what position shall I tie you up in? There’s not really any way to secure you to the headboard on this lovely bed, so I think that’s out. Of course, that’s rather cliche and you know I  _ do _ hate being ordinary.” He dragged the rope downwards and it tangled deliciously with Mycroft’s very erect cock. His brother let out a breathy moan and his hips bucked. “I suppose if I want you spreadeagled under me, I could attach the ropes to the bedside tables, and use a longer length at your feet to run it under the mattress - that would keep you nice and open for me.” He bobbed his head down and flicked his tongue to lap up the glistening drop of pre-come that was shining on the tip. “Or I suppose I could just bind your arms behind your back and force you onto your knees…” He carefully watched Mycroft’s reactions, trying to see which one was the most appealing to the older man. He seemed excited about them all equally so far, so Sherlock decided to throw out there the idea he hoped his brother would respond to the most favourably. “Then there’s the position where I secure your knees, and tie your wrists together, but your hands will be hooked under your knees, so you’ll essentially be holding your legs out of the way for me, displaying that glorious arse of yours.”

Mycroft’s cock twitched at this and his moaned again. “Oh,  _ please _ ,” he begged.

“Oh, I believe we have a winner,” Sherlock purred, then leaned over him and started placing open mouthed kisses to his chest, then sucking at one dusky pink nipple. Once Mycroft was positively writhing beneath him, he lay a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Shhh, let me take care of you, Mycie.” He directed his brother to bend his knees up to his chest and then looped the rope around his legs, tying it securely, but making sure the knot wasn’t digging into him. Once done, he guided his brother’s hands down one at a time so they hooked under his knees, and told him in a soft voice to clasp them together. Using a short length of rope, he tied his wrists, effectively immobilising him. 

Sherlock sat back on his heels and took in the sight before him, running one slender hand down the side of Mycroft’s leg. “Beautiful,” he whispered. “Are you comfortable?”

Mycroft nodded. “Surprisingly so, though if I had to remain like this for an extended length of time, I believe it would start to ache.”

“Tell me if it does. Now, time for part two.”

Sherlock leaned over Mycroft to reach for the next item on the floor, making sure he dragged his own leaking cock over the older man’s chest as he did so. Mycroft writhed a little at the sensation, and as he sat back up, Sherlock made sure to drag his length directly over those lovely nipples. He moved down the bed, keeping his new acquisitions from view, not wanting to give them away just yet. He pressed kisses to his brother’s knees, then moved upwards, kissing the creamy, freckle covered thighs. He nipped at the delicate skin, causing Mycroft to yelp, and using the moment to hide the sound of the lube cap flicking open. He then pressed a soothing kiss to the spot he had bitten, murmuring an apology. He poured a generous amount of lube onto the end of the purple butt plug he held, making sure the silicone was well coated. He traced one lubed finger over Mycroft’s entrance, watching the muscle flutter delicately at the touch. Unable to help himself, he dipped the tip inside, feeling the tight heat surround the digit. His brother moaned, and rocked his hips slightly, seeking deeper penetration. “Uh uh, patience, dear brother.”

Mycroft whined, but immediately did as he was told. It appeared the British Government had a slight inclination for submission. 

Sherlock removed his finger and then dragged the lubed toy over and around the older man’s hole, then with a small amount of pressure, pushed it inside. There was a moment where the tight ring of muscle resisted, but soon it was opening up and sucked the toy inside. He ran a hand gently over one rounded cheek as he greedily drank in the sight of the toy - the flared end sitting snugly against his skin. “Do you like that?” he asked, his voice a deep hum.

“It doesn’t feel as good as your cock inside me, but it feels good nonetheless.”

“Oh, I think it could feel even better.”

“Oh?”

He picked up the small remote and hit a button, a low humming noise filling the air. Mycroft cried out as the plug began to vibrate against his prostate, and he rocked from side to side. “Oh, God, Sherlock!” he gasped.

“Mycie, you really are being very noisy,” Sherlock chided him, reaching down to the floor once more. He picked up the last item he had unpacked. He held it up and watched as Mycroft’s eyes widened at the sight. “I think I’m going to have to gag you.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear, what a meanie I am, stopping it there...smut continued in the next chapter!


	95. Chapter 95

Mycroft swallowed hard at the sight of the ball gag his brother held, his cock twitching almost violently. “ _ Yes, _ ” he hissed.

Sherlock smirked and moved forward, holding the gag in front of him. Mycroft opened his mouth wide, allowing the younger man to place the ball between his teeth and he closed his mouth around it, breathing in experimentally. It was odd, feeling the air suck in through the small holes, and he decided he would be much more comfortable breathing through his nose. He saw Sherlock waiting, and he gave a small nod, and lifted his head so his lover could secure the clasps of the gag. He tightened it until it was snug, but not cutting into his flesh, and then Mycroft allowed his head to drop back down onto the pillow. 

“Now,” the younger man began, rather seriously, “you can’t speak so we need a signal so you can let me know if you’re uncomfortable. Can you snap your fingers at all in this position?”

It was hard to concentrate with the way the plug was vibrating inside of him, but he gave it a try and found he was able to, though it wasn’t quite as loud as he could usually manage. 

“Right, well snap three times if you need me to stop. If I don’t hear you for any reason, give me a sharp kick.”

Mycroft felt like rolling his eyes, knowing it unlikely that he would want Sherlock to stop at all, but refrained as he knew his brother was simply being responsible. He nodded instead.

“Good boy,” Sherlock cooed.

He did roll his eyes this time, and the younger man laughed. He held up the remote and made a show of hitting another button and the intensity of the plug increased. Mycroft grunted against the gag, feeling a small puddle of pre-ajaculate pooling on his stomach.

After a long moment, Sherlock dialled back the vibrations to the first setting, and Mycroft felt himself relax just a little. The buzz was still pleasant, but after feeling the higher setting, he knew he could stand this level for a much longer period of time. His brother seemed to be in no hurry, and was pressing delicate kisses to his throat. He allowed his eyes to close so he could focus on the light touches made by plush lips. Sherlock made sure he was thorough - kissing every single inch of Mycroft’s throat and neck, making sure he sucked gently at the sensitive spot just behind his ear. A hand snaked its way down and began to toy with his nipples, rolling them between his fingers in turn, causing small peaks to form. In between one breath and the next, the setting on the plug increased and Mycroft cried out against the gag. The design of the plug made it sit flush against his prostate and heat began to pool in his belly. Sherlock continued to stimulate his nipples, pinching gently and adding an extra level of intensity to the situation. 

Just as Mycroft was sure he would come from the ministrations, the vibrator was dialled back down and the pulsing waves of need ebbed down a notch.

He felt fingers at the band of the gag and suddenly it was loosened, the ball being pulled from his mouth. Lips were then moving against his and he was drawn into a passionate kiss. His eyes remained closed the entire time, the extra sensory deprivation adding a whole extra level to the experience. Perhaps next time he would request a blindfold as well....The thought disappeared as a tongue was suddenly probing into his mouth and he became caught up entirely in the kiss. Sherlock was making small, breathy sounds which only fuelled Mycroft’s desire, and he could feel the heavy weight of his brother’s erection pressed against his side. He wanted so badly to have Sherlock inside of him, but being unable to voice the request or being free to guide his brother to where he wanted him, Mycroft had little choice but to patiently wait for his lover to do as he wished.

Once they were both gasping for breath, Sherlock broke the kiss and Mycroft felt a hand on his jaw, urging him to open again as the ball was replaced. Once it was fastened securely once more, Sherlock moved back to teasing the rest of Mycroft’s body with mouth and fingers. His back was beginning to ache just a little from being held in the unnatural position, but he pushed aside the discomfort, knowing it would be worth it in the end. Something must have shown on his face, as the controls on the plug were switched off, and he felt Sherlock’s fingers grip the base of the plug. He rocked it from side to side, and then pulled it out a little, then thrust it back in. He then repeated the action, pulling it out once more - just a little further this time - and then it was pushed back home. Sherlock fucked him for a minute or two with the plug, dragging it unerringly over the sensitive gland each time. The steady stream of moans that Mycroft was making were muted somewhat against the gag, and his whole body was shaking with need.

Eventually, Sherlock took pity on him. The plug was eased out all the way and then he felt the blunt head of Sherlock’s cock pressing up against him. The younger man rested there for a brief moment, dragging out the anticipation, and then pushing himself inside. His cock was well slicked, and the plug had opened Mycroft up nicely, so he slid inside quickly, with very little resistance. He heard the quiet gasp as Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat, and Mycroft could do little but wait. Then Sherlock was taking hold of his knees and moving his hips, his balls slapping against Mycroft’s arse as he thrust in and out, hard and fast.

“Fuck, Mycie, you should see yourself - so open and ready for me. God, the sight of me slipping in and out of your arse is amazing. You’re so hot and tight, fuck, you drive me crazy.”

Sherlock’s words went straight to his cock, and Mycroft felt his member jump, and fluid pulsed from the tip. He was so close already, balancing on the edge of that full body orgasm that occurred when he came from prostate stimulation alone. The angle he was curled at meant that Sherlock’s cock was dragging across that bundle of nerves on both the way in and out, and the pressure was building, building. The litany of filthy praise that spilled from Sherlock’s mouth only seemed to push him closer to the edge, and then suddenly he was spilling over that precipice. His back arched as much as it was able and he grunted as he felt hot spurts of come paint his stomach and chest. He could feel the walls of his passage constricting tightly around Sherlock’s cock and his brother bit down hard on Mycroft’s shoulder as his own orgasm overcame him. 

Sherlock slumped backwards onto his heels as Mycroft cracked his eyes open, taking in the beauty that was a well fucked Consulting Detective. 

Their eyes met and Sherlock leaned down and pressed a kiss to his knee. “Time to get you ungagged and untied,” he said softly. He undid the clasp on the gag first, kissing him gently after he removed it. Then his deft violinist fingers were tugging at the knots in the ropes, and once they had succumbed to his will, he helped Mycroft stretch out his arms and legs, massaging the limbs to ensure the circulation returned. Once done, he helped the older man off the bed and led him into the bathroom where he wet a flannel with hot water and almost reverently cleaned Mycroft down. It should have felt uncomfortable and awkward, having Sherlock tend to him in such an intimate fashion (though why having him wipe away the release that was dribbling down his crack should be more embarrassing that the events that led up to it, he had no clue). The fact of the matter was, Mycroft quite enjoyed this little show of aftercare. He felt precious and loved, and being so vulnerable with someone he trusted explicitly was somehow very freeing. 

Once Sherlock was satisfied they were both clean enough, he took Mycroft’s hand and led them back to the bed. He pulled back the duvet and they climbed under it, just as rain began to pelt against the window in earnest. He curled himself against Sherlock’s chest, relaxing as they lay together, listening to the rain. Sherlock kissed his temple, and murmured against his hair, “Did you enjoy that?”

He tilted his head up so he could see his brother clearly. “More than you will ever know,” he replied honestly.

The younger man beamed at him and hummed happily deep in his chest. “Excellent. There were several other items I purchased that are waiting for us when we get home. I can’t wait to play with them with you.”

For the first time, Mycroft found himself wishing their holiday was already over.

 


	96. Chapter 96

The sky was almost black as they packed their belongings back into the campervan the following morning, putting an official end to their stay at Lake Louise. Mycroft paused as they shut the rear door and glanced up at the sky. “That looks rather nasty,” he muttered.

Sherlock shrugged. “Given the time of the year, I’d say we’ve been rather lucky with the weather we’ve had so far.”

“True,” Mycroft conceded. “I suppose it will make the drive interesting.”

“I promise not to get us killed,” the detective told him, and pulled him in close for a kiss. 

Mycroft returned it eagerly and then rested his head on his shoulder, prolonging the embrace. “Thank you for this, Sherlock. It’s been wonderful.”

The younger man nuzzled against Mycroft’s hair. “Considering I manipulated you into driving around the countryside in a campervan, I thought it only fair you got a couple of nights in a fancy hotel.”

“Very magnanimous of you,” he said with a chuckle.

“Yes, I thought so.” They shared another kiss, and then Sherlock jingled the keys. “Come on, brother dear - we should probably get a move on before the weather breaks.”

They were soon leaving the postcard perfect lake behind them and getting onto the Icefields Parkway. The temperature seemed to drop suddenly, and Mycroft reached across to crank up the heater. “Are you warm enough?” he asked Sherlock, a note of concern in his voice.

The detective gave him a fond smile and reached over to squeeze his thigh. “I’m fine, Mycie.” He had come to bed last night after replying to an email from Mark to find his brother curled up on his side of the bed, warming it up for him. Even now, after all this time, he was still touched by this simple gesture. He had burrowed under the blankets and held his brother close, knowing he was loved and cared for. Of course, Mycroft had  _ always _ looked out for him, but it was so much better now - not only because of the obvious, but because he could return the favour in kind. Having someone to worry and fret over, to make sure that  _ they _ were warm and comfortable only seemed to amplify the gestures that he received in return.

He was pulled from his musings from Mycroft pointing across to one of the mountains. “That’s the Crowfoot Glacier,” he said, having devoured a brochure on what sights they would see along the way. 

“Do you want to stop?”

Mycroft shrugged. “We’re not in any hurry, are we? May as well.”

Sherlock pulled over at the lookout point and they clambered out of the van to take in the sight. Mark had asked if he was taking any holiday snaps and although he’d taken some of the scenery, he had very few of himself and his brother, which were the ones their friend had wanted to see. He’d promised he would make more of an effort and so he stood close to Mycroft and took a selfie of the two of them with the glacier in the background. It was innocent enough - to an uninformed observer, their closeness would be dismissed as trying to fit in the frame, but those who were aware of their relationship would know better. They turned back around, and Sherlock wrapped an arm about Mycroft’s waist as they continued to take in the view. “Shall we get back on the road?” he asked quietly after some time had passed.

Mycroft hummed in agreement but it was with some reluctance that Sherlock allowed his arm to slip from his brother. He knew it was terribly sappy and sentimental, but he hated the moments that they had to forgo bodily contact. Psychologists would probably deem them to be too clingy and attached (and that was even  _ without _ mentioning to nature of their familial bond) but he found he couldn’t care less. He had spent the majority of this life being aloof and shunning human contact, and now that he found someone he wanted to be close to, he was going to be as close as he could get.

They continued up the parkway, stopping often to take photos and enjoy the scenery. The natural beauty surrounding them was almost too much to take in, and one snow capped peak began to blur into another, and the novelty at seeing a glacier began to wear off as there was always another just up the road. Of course, there were always singular sights to take in - the almost milky looking blue of Peyto Lake, the Weeping Wall with its numerous waterfalls, the Athabasca Glacier that they would be returning to in the next couple of days to do a tour of, and then the unexpected herd of mountain goats. 

They stopped in at Jasper to replenish their supplies for the next few days and they were both taken in by the charm of the mountain town. It wasn’t overrun with the chain stores that were common to most towns they had passed through, but instead seemed to be mostly ‘mum and dad’ type of family run businesses. Once they had stocked up, they stopped to buy takeaway coffees at one of the small cafes and Sherlock made sure two pieces of a delectable looking cheesecake were added to their order as well. Mycroft had expected them to go home several pounds heavier (and seemed quite upset by this), but despite the sorts of food they were both eating, nether seemed to have succumbed to the weight gain. Sherlock had a snaking suspicion it was because of the increased amount of sexual exercise they were partaking in, and made a mental note to include such activities tonight to work off the cake.

They drove to one of the larger campsites and booked a site, following the directions of the rather convoluted map to find their way. They soon pulled into the space, surrounded by towering trees that provided each site with some semblance of privacy. They stepped out into the chilly air and before they did anything else, took a seat at the picnic table to drink their coffee. Sherlock used a plastic fork to pick up a hunk of cheesecake and he moaned almost orgasmically as he tasted it. “Oh, wow, this is delicious.” He scooped up another bite and held it out for Mycroft to taste. His brother closed his lovely lips around the morsel and his eyes closed in pleasure. 

“I agree - that’s positively scrumptious,” he said after he had swallowed.

The sight of Mycroft enjoying the cake was more splendid than anything he had seen so far that day, and Sherlock felt his cock swelling. Eager to see it again, he used the fork to cut off another piece and he held it up again.

“I’m more than capable of feeding myself, brother mine,” Mycroft told him, but accepted the bite anyway. His reaction was just as erotic as the first time, and Sherlock squirmed on the bench.

His brother didn’t miss the response he was causing and he licked his lower lip slowly to make sure no crumbs had been left behind, all the while holding eye contact with the younger man. He then picked up his own fork and speared a piece of cake to hold out to Sherlock, who opened his mouth in anticipation, moaning softly as the cheesecake practically melted on his tongue. He dabbed at a loose crumb of the base on the plate and brought his finger to his mouth, sucking it inside in a carnal fashion. Mycroft began to squirm as well, but they continued to hold each other’s gaze, fucking each other with their eyes. 

They continued feeding each other, growing harder the longer it went on, neither seeming to notice the temperature dropping around them even more, their heated gazes keeping the chill at bay. By the time both plates were clean, they both rose, a silent agreement between them, and moved towards the campervan. It appeared they would require an exercise session immediately to counteract the cheesecake they had just consumed. Of course, both were dedicated to their health, and Sherlock had no doubt that a second session would be required later that night as well.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, they are so overcome by holiday horniness it's not funny, but I make no apologies! Well, maybe one - not all the scenes will be described, but implied (like this sexercise session). I have to fit in the plot *somewhere*!


	97. Chapter 97

Despite the heater that had been going all night, and the several blankets they had slept under, it was positively freezing inside the camper the following morning. Mycroft woke when the toe he had peeking out the end of the bed became painfully cold. He rolled over onto his back and took in the well shagged appearance of his sleeping brother. He couldn’t help but grin at the memories of last night and how passionate they had both been. He knew that neither of them would be walking straight today as they had both given and taken - multiple times - last night, the holiday seeming to invigorate their libidos. There was a delicious ache down below that would be a constant reminder of their...sexcapades, but the diplomat found he didn’t mind at all.

Being careful not to wake Sherlock, Mycroft rolled out of the bed, and then folded his half of the top two blankets over to add to the warmth atop his brother. He then cranked the heater up as high as it would go (which was only a few degrees more than what it was currently set at), and decided he would stir up the fire to make some tea. He shrugged into one of the heavy jackets and opened the door of the camper, only to have his jaw drop open.

The reason for the freezing temperatures was suddenly explained by the inch thick dusting of snow laying upon the ground. It appeared that most of it had fallen overnight, but a few flakes were still falling. They hadn’t bothered to check the weather forecast and so had been taken completely by surprise. Mycroft looked over to see the firepit was completely extinguished and he suddenly didn’t have the energy it would take to get the fire going once more. He pulled the door shut, and decided that he would put the kitchenette to use for once. 

With tea made, he moved back down into the rear of the camper and placed both mugs on the shelf that lined the rear wall. Sherlock was burrowed down under the mountain of blankets but one eye was visible, blinking slowly at him from underneath. “ s’cold,” he mumbled.

“Probably has something to do with the fact that it’s been snowing.”

The detective lifted his head a little out of the blankets. “Really?”

“Indeed.” Mycroft sat down on the edge of the bed.

“I would have thought it was too early in the year for snow.”

“I guess winter comes earlier to the mountains.”

“Huh. Well, we had planned on spending time on top of a giant glacier today so it’s not like snow will make much of a difference.”

“Probably not, but that’s not going to take the rest of the day.”

Sherlock flipped the extra blankets back into place and then held them open in welcome. “Perhaps you should join me back under here then?”

Mycroft grinned and slipped the jacket off, then climbed back into the warm space. Sherlock immediately plastered himself along his body and nuzzled his warm nose against Mycroft’s cold cheek. When a slender hand crept downwards and dipped under the waistband of his pyjama bottoms, he couldn’t help but chuckle. “You are insatiable.”

“I have an absolute sex god in my bed, Mycie - of course I’m insatiable.”

“I don’t know if either of our poor abused bottoms could take the extra attention this morning.”

Sherlock sucked his earlobe into his mouth, before letting it go with a filthy  _ pop _ . “Luckily for both of our bottoms, there is more than one way to skin a cat.”

“Oh? Have much experience with skinning cats, do you?”

His brother’s hand wrapped around his now hard cock in a firm hold, almost too firm to be comfortable. “Now, now, brother dear, no need to be pedantic this morning.”

“But it’s one of my many charms.”

“I beg to differ.”

Mycroft reached out and found Sherlock’s own erection beneath the silken material of his own sleep pants. There was a large damp patch that indicated how much he was leaking. “The evidence I have at hand tells me you love it.”

“Perhaps I just love  _ you _ ?”

He pushed the sleep pants down off Sherlock’s hips and wrapped his hand around the hot flesh. “Someone is a romantic this morning.”

Sherlock’s breath had hitched as Mycroft rubbed his thumb in circles over the slit and around the tip. “You seem to have that effect on me.”

Mycroft leaned over and kissed along Sherlock’s jaw and then down his throat, neither of them enjoying deep kisses with morning breath. Luckily, there were plenty of other places to kiss. Their hands continued to work each other, but the oldest brother suddenly wanted more. He reached down for the lube and squirted a generous amount onto his hand, then reached down and smeared the gel between Sherlock’s thighs. He then pulled his cock free of Sherlock’s hold and directed it downwards, slipping it in between his legs. He rocked his hips forward, feeling his cock push between the furry skin, the angle he was at allowing the tip to drag along Sherlock’s perineum and balls. As he pulled back, he allowed it to slip from the space and spring up and slide against Sherlock’s own prick. He then moved it back down, achingly slowly and pushed between his thighs again. His brother groaned at the feeling and he whimpered in need as the head caught a little against his hole. Mycroft teased him, pushing against it gently, but before the head could even slip inside, he was moving onwards, allowing his cock to slide the rest of the way up Sherlock’s crack. 

He rutted slowly and surely against the detective, his lubed hand wrapping back around Sherlock’s erection and stroking firmly along it. Each time his cock caught at Sherlock’s entrance, the urge to thrust his way inside was almost overpowering, and it was clear his brother would welcome the intrusion. But instead, will almost superhuman willpower, he moved onwards, dragging his weeping cock up and over the firm bollocks, to slip into his own grasp so he stroked their lengths together, and then back down, pushing into the tight space between his brother’s thighs. It was a deliciously slow but intense form of torture for both of them, their desire building so gradually that both felt like their nerves were heating up until they were on fire. 

“ _ Please, _ ” Sherlock whimpered against his throat, his voice full of absolute need.

“Please, what?” he asked.

“God, I don’t know, just  _ more _ !”

Seeing his brother fall apart like this was exquisite, but he also didn't want to push past the point of teasing him into denying him. He began to speed up his movements, snapping his wrist as he jerked him off, and thrusting his cock more quickly between his thighs. Sherlock gasped and moaned, Mycroft’s name falling from his lips in filthy praise. And then his little brother showed his devious side, as he suddenly changed the angle of his hips as Mycroft was passing over his hole, pushing himself down and impaling himself on Mycroft’s cock. They both cried out, and came instantly, Sherlock’s come spilling over Mycroft’s fist, and Mycroft filling his brother’s passage. 

“Fuck, Sherlock,” Mycroft bit out as his whole body shuddered at the delectable feeling of the tight walls around him.

Sherlock smirked at him, but the relaxed, dopey look in his post-orgasmic eyes softened the expression somewhat. “Surprise,” he joked.

Mycroft chuckled as he extracted himself, and shook his head. “When you can’t walk at all today, you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.”

“I regret nothing!” the younger man declared.

“You never do.” Mycroft went to climb out of bed to fetch them a flannel to clean off, but Sherlock caught him around the waist and held him tight. “The sheets,” he protested.

“There are laundry facilities here - I’ll wash them later,” Sherlock mumbled in his low baritone. “Just shut up and snuggle with me, Mycie.”

Never able to resist his baby brother’s demands, Mycroft sank back down and into his embrace.

 


	98. Chapter 98

The camper came with snow chains but neither brother had ever put them on before, and so they found themselves standing outside, peering down at the glowing screen of Sherlock’s phone as they Googled instructions. “Looks simple enough,” Mycroft said after he’d read them.

“Which probably means it’ll require a degree in theoretical physics to attach them,” Sherlock muttered.

His brother chuckled. “Luckily for us, we’re both geniuses - I’m sure we’ll manage.”

“You probably don’t need to bother with those today.” a friendly voice came from behind them.

The brothers looked over to see one of the park rangers standing there. He was a grizzled looking old man, but his chocolate brown eyes sparkled as he gave them a wide smile. “Oh?” Mycroft said politely.

“The roads are mostly clear already from the amount of traffic since a dusting like this doesn’t stick around without a lot more falling. You might need them tomorrow, but I think you’ll be fine today. Just take it slow and don’t try to win any races.”

“Thank you for the advice,” the diplomat told him, genuinely thankful. “We don’t get snow often in London and when it does fall, it’s very little. Neither of us have much experience in driving in it.”

The old ranger nodded amiably. “I’m sure you boys will be fine, just keep a level head. I’ll stop by in the morning if we get more overnight and give you a hand attaching them if you’d like.”

“We’d appreciate that, thank you,” Mycroft told him.

Sherlock gave him one of his rare, genuine smiles, the kind he usually reserved for the likes of Mrs Hudson and Rosie. A sudden pang of homesickness hit him and he realised he missed the people they had left behind horribly. They gave a small wave as the ranger walked off to continue his rounds, and he turned to his brother. “Since we’ve saved a little time, do you mind if we try and Skype John and Rosie? And maybe Mark?”

Mycroft gave him a knowing look. “I miss them, too.” He glanced at his watch. “Hopefully John will be home from work now.”

They went back inside the camper and tried phoning John, but they got no answer. “It’s not even 5:30,” Sherlock mused. “Perhaps he’s still on his way home from picking Rosie up from daycare?”

Mycroft shrugged. “We’ll give Mark a go, and can try the others again afterwards.” He hit dial for the young agent and it wasn’t long before he had answered. His wide grin lit up the screen as he beamed at his friends.

“Why hello! I assume you both miss me so much that you just had to see my handsome mug so you could get your fill?”

Sherlock chuckled. “Something like that.”

“Are you at the office?” Mycroft asked curiously, his sharp eyes identifying the area from a single slither of wallpaper visible behind Mark’s hair.

The young agent suddenly looked guilty and his eyes flickered off screen for a moment. “Erm, maybe?”

“Has something happened?” the diplomat asked, and Sherlock hoped it wasn’t anything major so his brother would decide he needed to check in properly.

“Not yet, but I’m hopeful,” Mark said cryptically.

“Is the PM sick and you’re wanting to have a go at running the country?” Sherlock joked.

“Fuck, no - I’d leave that to mental people like your brother, Sher.”

“So, nothing...serious is amiss?” Mycroft clarified.

“No, there’s no impending disasters or political strife looming.” He sighed and they could see the screen bobbing as he walked away from where he was. There was the sound of a door clicking and they got a glimpse of a small meeting room he had shut himself inside. “I guess I’m just a little terrified,” he admitted.

Mycroft was on edge instantly. “Mark, tell me _what’s going on_?”

But Sherlock could suddenly see. He started to chuckle, and rubbed at his brother’s back to calm him. “I’m sure she’ll say yes,” he assured his friend.

Mark shrugged his shoulders. “Hopefully, but if she doesn’t, it’ll make things awkward.”

“I doubt that - she’s rejected John a million times and still acts the same around him.”

Mycroft looked between them in confusion, until it dawned on him what they were talking about. “Oh. _Oh_. You’re going to ask Anthea out!” he blurted.

“If she doesn’t kill me painfully for having the gall to approach her,” he muttered, but both brothers could see that Anthea’s fierceness was part of the appeal to Mark.

“She likes you, I’m sure you have a chance,” Mycroft said, though whether he meant Anthea agreeing to a date or Mark surviving wasn’t clear.

“So, um, this, well I mean, fuck. You’re okay with this?” Mark asked, rather bashful.

“I’m her boss, not her father,” Mycroft replied. “You don’t technically work in the same department so fraternisation rules don’t apply, and you’re both professional enough to keep it from affecting your work. If you want my seal of approval, you have it.”

The relief on the young man’s face was obvious. “Thank you!” Mark rubbed at the back of his head. “So, uh, if this where we have the ‘you hurt her and we’ll be having words’ talk?”

Sherlock snorted as Mycroft told him, “No, but if Anthea agrees to dinner, I’ll be having that chat with her.”

“Awww, you _do_ care!”

“Yes, well, good help is hard to find. Replacing you would be most difficult.”

“You say the sweetest things, Mycroft,” Mark said, batting his lashes at them.

They spoke of other things for a short while, but it was clear Mark was wanting to catch the PA before she left for the day, so they wished him luck and said their goodbyes. They grinned at each other and Sherlock asked, “What do you think his chances are?”

Mycroft shrugged. “It’s hard to tell with Anthea, but she does like him. I think she’ll agree to dinner, but I guess we’ll find out once we’re home.”

Sherlock hit connect for John, and as they listened to it ring, he knew he wouldn’t be able to wait for the news until he got home and would be messaging Mark later. The call connected and soon John’s face was appearing on the screen. “Hi,” he greeted them with a smile. The laptop must have been sitting on the table as they could see the small kitchen behind him.  “We just got in. How’s things?”

“We’re having a great time,” Sherlock told him. “It snowed overnight so it’s rather cold but otherwise everything is wonderful.”

“Rosie,” John called. “Sherlock and Mycie are on Skype. Come say hello.” The child must have replied but neither brother could hear what she said. John raised his eyebrows at her. “Don’t be like that, come on. No?” He shook his head and then turned back to the camera. “Here, let me take this over to her. She’s being a bit of a brat.” He picked up the laptop and Sherlock traced his movements across to the sitting room, and then it swung around as John took a seat on the couch. He moved the laptop further back on his knees to widen the scope of the camera and Rosie came into view.

Jealousy roiled through Sherlock in an angry wave as he saw she was curled up on Jonathon’s lap, snuggling against him and refusing to look at the camera. It was Mycroft’s turn to rub a soothing hand over Sherlock’s back and he forced himself to smile “Hello, Rosie,” he said as cheerfully as he could manage. “Hi, Jonathon.”

The professor gave them a small smile and a wave hello, and then bent down and said softly to Rosie, “Hey, poppet, don’t you want to say hello?” She shook her head and refused to even look at the camera.

“Sorry,” John apologised. “As I said, she’s being a bit of a brat.”

Rosie turned and scowled at her father. “’m not a brat!” she yelled.

“Yes, sweetheart, you are. Now say hello like a good girl.”

“Don’t wanna talk to Sher Sher and Mycie,” she protested, and hid her face back in Jonathon’s shirt.

Sherlock felt an ache in his heart and realised that this must be what a broken heart felt like. Who would have thought it would be a little girl who caused it? “It’s okay,” he said with fake cheerfulness. “We can chat with Rosie when we come home.”

“No!” the little girl screamed. “Go away!”

John shrugged and gave an apologetic smile. “Don’t worry about her; last night she was jumping around in joy when I told her you’d be coming home soon. She just misses you and so she’s acting out.”

He nodded, and asked if any clients had been in touch, but wasn’t really listening as John replied. Mycroft was quiet beside him, seemingly sharing in his heartbreak. As soon as it was polite to do so, he ended the call without asking for Mrs Hudson to be called up for a chat like he’d originally wanted. “We’re on our way up to do a tour of the glacier so we’d best be off.”

“Sounds like fun,” John said with a fond smile. “No experimenting on how fast you can melt it, Sherlock - global warming has that covered already!”

He rolled his eyes at the joke. “Very funny, John. Right, well, we’ll talk again later I’m sure. Rosie, I love you.” The girl refused to even look at him, and he swallowed hard. “Right, well, bye then.” He disconnected the call and let his phone fall into his lap, trying to ignore the stinging in his eyes.

“Well, that was painful,” Mycroft muttered.

Sherlock could only nod, sniffing slightly. He wiped a stray tear from his cheek and then plastered a smile on his face. “Right, well, shall we get going?”

His brother knew he didn’t want to discuss the matter so he nodded, and kissed him gently on the cheek. “Of course. Let’s go climb on a glacier.”

  


 


	99. Chapter 99

They reached the Discovery Centre safely, and Mycroft was rather proud of Sherlock, who had been driving. Neither of them drove much anymore, and hardly ever in such conditions, but he had put aside his more reckless tendencies and had taken great care along the mountain roads, especially when it started to snow lightly again. They parked in the large carpark and then made their way into the centre, deciding to book a later tour so they could have some lunch first. 

The table they were sat at gave spectacular views of the glacier and neither could tear their eyes away from it. “I know I’ve never been much into nature, but I have enjoyed this trip immensely,” Mycroft admitted. “Thank you, Sherlock, for pushing me out of my comfort zone.”

His brother gave him a wry smile and reached over and took his hand, tracing one of his fingers over the backs of the diplomat’s knuckles. “To be fair, some of my favourite memories of this trip were from our stay at a fancy hotel. It seems we do best when we compromise.”

“And who would  _ ever _ have thought we’d be mature enough to do that?” he retorted with a grin.

Sherlock laughed. “I know. If you had told me five years ago that we’d be getting along like this - even if you disregard the sex entirely - I would never have believed you. Fighting with you has always been so natural.”

“Mummy would be pleased with how well we get along now, I suppose.”

“Do you think…?” his brother trailed off.

Mycroft shook his head. “I’ve given that some thought, obviously with Father knowing but I doubt she would have been as accepting. As much as she loved us, she was a very moral woman and I think this would have been pushing it too far.”

Sherlock sighed. “I suppose it’s a good thing that she died without ever finding out. I know we joked about it, but I hated when we upset her.”

“Yes, I don’t think I could have stood to see her that upset.”

Their meals came and they both made a concerted effort to keep the conversation to lighter topics. They were both still a little raw from Rosie’s reaction, and speaking of Mummy had brought their grief to the forefront. It was a nice change when Sherlock regaled him with stories about working with the Met. “I swear, if it wasn’t for Lestrade, I’d have washed my hands with the lot of them,” the detective said, as Mycroft laughed uproariously after the tale of how due to a rookie officer’s mistake, a dye bomb had gone off and covered himself, John, Lestrade, and Donovan with ink. 

They finished their lunch and wandered over to where they needed to gather for the tour, and soon they were climbing onto a regular bus that would take them partway up the mountain to where they would board the large Ice Explorer. The tour only seemed to be at half capacity so they were underway rather quickly. A young girl sitting several rows in front of them was standing up on the seat, staring out the window at the snow that was still falling. “Mum, can we make a snowman?” she asked, her accent giving her away as Australian.

“I don’t think we get a lot of time up there, sweetie,” the blonde woman sitting next to her said. “But if it keeps snowing overnight, maybe we’ll get to make one tomorrow?”

Two other children popped up from the seat in front of them and they all started chatting in excitement about the snow, obviously never having seen it before. Mycroft smiled indulgently at them, finding it much easier to be around children now that he spent so much time with Rosie. Of course, these three were very well behaved so it might have been a different story if they were acting out. His smile faded as he recalled yet again the frosty reception they’d gotten from the child they considered their niece. He hoped that once they were home and she got over being upset at them going away, Rosie would go back to being smitten with the two of them. He didn’t know what he would do if she didn’t, but he pushed that thought aside, not wanting it to cloud his enjoyment of the day.

They were soon transferring onto the large terra bus that was specially designed for arctic conditions, making it perfect for a jaunt across a glacier. As they began their drive up, the driver’s voice came over the loudspeakers and began to explain about the history of the area and how the glacier was disappearing at an alarming rate. 

They came to a stop after a while and everyone got off the snow coach, having some time to spend looking around. It was snowing more heavily here and the wind had sprung up, whipping the flakes around so they stung Mycroft’s cheeks. He and Sherlock were bundled up in their large jackets, and he felt somewhat like a penguin as he shuffled across the ice with his brother. He hit a slippery patch of ice where the wind had scoured the snow free, and he felt himself falling, but then strong arms were around him as Sherlock caught him. They laughed together as they regained their balance, and Sherlock’s eyes were bright, glorious in the overbright light reflecting off the ice. Mycroft was momentarily stunned by the sheer beauty of his brother, and the way Sherlock was gazing back at him told him that the feeling was absolutely mutual. He pressed a chaste kiss to his lips, feeling their cold noses rub together, and Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed, his lashes thick with falling snowflakes. “I love you so much,” Mycroft whispered.

“Love you, too,” Sherlock replied. He went to say something else but was cut off before he could begin by a lump of snow hitting the side of his head. They broke apart and looked over to see the three children from the bus nearby. 

The eldest boy was standing with his hand clamped over his mouth and his eyes wide. “I’m sorry!” he babbled. “I threw the snowball at my sister but it went too high!”

The brothers’ eyes met and instantly they knew what they were going to do. “I believe,” Mycroft said, trying to keep his tone from being  _ too _ menacing, “that this means  _ war _ .” Instantly he and Sherlock were crouching down and gathering handfuls of snow, forming them into rudimentary balls and then flinging them at the children. The three kids squealed and scattered, ducking down to scoop up their own snow to retaliate. 

Soon it was a full scale battle; snowballs flying through the air, bodies slipping and falling into the snow face first, the deep rumble of Sherlock’s laughter booming across the ice, offset by the higher pitched giggling of the children. The memory of their last snow fight flittered through Mycroft’s mind, but this time there was no John to ruin the moment by kissing Sherlock, no need to hide their relationship as they ganged up on the group of siblings. Everyone was grinning manically and when the driver announced in a loud voice that it was time to get back onto the explorer, it wasn’t only the children who groaned unhappily. 

The five of them trooped up onto the coach, cheeks red, hair and clothing plastered white with snow, ignoring the scowls a few of the more dour people on the couch threw them. The brother’s fell onto a seat, pulling off sopping wet gloves and linking their hands together for warmth. The three children squeezed onto the seat in front of them, kneeling so they could face them. “That was  _ so _ cool!” the oldest said. “Thanks for playing with us.”

“My name’s Penny,” the girl said. “What’s yours?”

“I’m Sherlock and this is Mycie.”

The girl nodded and pointed at her brothers. “That’s Matt,” she said, indicating the eldest. “And that’s Callum.” 

“It’s very lovely to meet you,” Mycroft said. “I take it you haven’t gotten to play in the snow before?”

Callum shook his head. “Nope, this is the first time we’ve seen it. It’s so much fun!”

“Do you get to play in the snow much?” Penny asked brightly. “Where are you from? Is it cold there? Have you been here before? Where are you staying? Do you live near here?”

“ _ Penny _ !” their mother admonished from here spot across the aisle. “Stop nagging the nice men.” She gave them an apologetic smile. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

Sherlock reached out and flicked a rapidly melting clump of snow out of Penny’s hair. “That’s okay, I know what it’s like to have a million questions about everything.”

The driver’s voice interrupted them as they began to move and he continued with his information session. The children grudgingly turned around and sat in the seats properly, and Sherlock leaned his head against Mycroft’s shoulder. “That was fun,” he whispered.

Mycroft smiled and kissed his wet curls. “It was. I always have fun with you.”

“I’m going to have even more fun with you tonight,” he promised in a low voice.

As Sherlock whispered all the filthy things he had planned, Mycroft attempted to look nonchalant, but his reddened cheeks were from much more than just the cold.

 


	100. Chapter 100

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How did we get here? Chapter 100...thanks for sticking with me!

They got back to the the campsite and Mycroft decided to email Father and send him some photos, so while he did that, Sherlock grabbed the sheets off the bed and some of their dirty clothes and headed for the laundry block. The snow had stopped and a bitterly cold wind was blowing, but he enjoyed the jaunt through the woods, feeling invigorated by the chill air. He breathed in deeply, the spicy scent of the woods filling his nose and knew that he would miss this once he was back home. As much as he adored London, he had grown very fond of Canada and would miss the serenity their holiday had brought him. Of course, they could have been holed up in a ghetto somewhere and he’d still look favourably upon their time there since he saw everything through rose tinted glasses when it involved his brother.

He reached the laundry room and fished out a couple of loonies for the machines, and then started two loads. He took a seat and checked his emails on his phone, and found one from John. He opened it to see all it was was a video file with the brief message ‘ _This might make up for our Skype call_ ’. He hit play and Rosie appeared on the screen. She was in her pyjamas, sitting in her highchair, and John had evidently been trying to feed her her dinner. She was refusing to eat, tears were streaming down her face, and she was wailing ‘ _I want my Sher Sher, Daddy, please, I want my Sher Sher!’_

One of his hands flew up to his mouth and he hit play again, hating to see the child so upset but touched as well that she did actually miss him. Due to the time differences he couldn’t phone again now, so he held the phone in front of himself and took a brief video. “Rosie, I miss you so much and it won’t be long until Mycie and I are home to see you. I’ll call you again soon. I love you.” He attached it to a reply email and hit send, feeling a little bit better than he had done this morning. Logically he knew not to take to heart anything Rosie said when she was upset and throwing a tantrum, but her rejection of the brothers when they had phoned that morning had still stung.

He wiled away the time while he waited by responding to an email from Mark (Anthea had agreed to dinner, suggesting that very night and the young agent was ecstatic ) and then by browsing a magazine that had been left behind. Once the washing machines had finished their cycle, he switched the loads over to a few dryers and then settled back down to wait. The door to the room opened, admitting a blast of chilly air and several small humans.

“Hi, Sherlock!” Penny said, beaming at him.

He recognised the children from earlier in the day and smiled as he saw the scowl on the eldest boy’s face as he lugged in a large basket of washing. “I assume your mother is making you do chores today?”

“Urgh, it’s not fair!” the boy complained as he hefted the basket onto the table in the middle of the room.

“Just shut up, Matt,” the middle child snapped at his brother. “You’ve been whining constantly.”

“ _You’re_ not the one who had to carry everything!”

“Well, _you’re_ the one who yelled at Mum!”

“How ‘bout you stop being a little bitch and help do the washing?”

Callum gasped in shock. “You’re not allowed to say that word! You said a bad word, Matt - I’m telling Mum on you!”

“You’re not going to say a word!”

The two brothers began to chase each other around the room, fighting as they ran. Penny sat herself on the seat next to Sherlock and completely ignored her brothers. “Did you know that there’s some elk out there?” she asked him, a huge smile on her face.

“Do you mean ‘out there’ in a general sense? Or ‘out there’ as in now?” Sherlock asked her.

“I mean if you walk out the door and look over to the path, there’s elk standing there.”

“Really?” He jumped up from his seat and crossed to the door, ignoring the way Matt had pinned Callum to the floor and was stuffing a dirty sock into his mouth to convince him to not say anything to their mother. Penny followed him and they stepped outside. Sure enough, several of the large beasts were standing around nonchalantly, ignoring the odd person who stopped to stare at them and take photos. “Wow.”

“I know right? There’s so _big_! We don’t get anything like that back home!”

“No, neither do we.” He pulled out his phone and took a photo of the animals.

“I can take one of you, if you want?” the girl offered. “So you can show your boyfriend.” She said the last word in a sing song voice and added a kissy sound afterwards.

Sherlock found himself blushing, and he coughed, then nodded. “Ah, yes - please - that would be nice.”

He handed over the phone and started to point out how to take a photo but Penny stopped him with a derisive look he had never expected to see on the face of a child. “I _know_ how to take a photo - I used to have this model of phone before the new one came out,” she said and Sherlock suddenly felt ancient. He had to kneel on the ground in the end so she could frame him in the picture with the elk in the background. She took two photos, then handed the phone back with a grin. “In the second one it looks like the big one is eating your hair!” The girl laughed like this was the funniest thing she had ever seen, and when he opened the photo, he had to admit it was perfectly timed.

“I’m sure Mycie will find it very funny.” They went back inside and found Matt standing over Callum, watching closely as the younger boy filled the washing machines. He was holding up a pair of soiled underwear - clearly a threat as to what would next be shoved in his mouth if he dared to question the victor. Sherlock noticed the dryers had come to a finish and he went over and began to unload them into his own basket. “Right, well I’m off. Enjoy the rest of your afternoon.”

“Bye, Sherlock. Don’t get eaten by any elk!” Penny trilled as she waved enthusiastically.

He chuckled as he left, and headed towards the path, but as he got closer, he realised just how _big_ the animals were. They seemed happy enough to eat the grass underfoot and not the skinny detective approaching them, but he was sure if they were startled, a kick from one of them would easily re-break the ribs that had only just healed. There was another path leading off to the left and he decided to take that instead, even if he had to circle around until he got back to their site.

He began to walk, finding himself yet again enjoying being outdoors. He’d always been the more physical out of himself and Mycroft but in recent years he had become more inclined to remain indoors and play his violin or lose himself in his mind palace. He’d forgotten just how much he could _think_ when he was outdoors with no one else around. Of course, the ‘no one else around’ bit was the challenge when it came to any outside space in London, but perhaps he and Mycroft could start spending more weekends away? There were lots of quiet woods near their parent’s house, and it would be good to spend more time with Father, especially since they now didn't have to go to so many lengths to hide their relationship from him.

After ten minutes, the path opened up to an area reserved for tents, but due to the weather there were few set up. A sign indicated the site numbers, and he knew he should be close to theirs. He continued walking, shifting the washing basket from in front of him onto one of his hips. The light was starting to fade rapidly, and the wind picked up. He stopped and pulled on another jumper from the clean washing and then came to a fork in the path. He automatically took the one to the right, thinking that it would bring him out very near to where they had parked the camper.

He walked for another ten minutes, but the clearing he came out into this time had a completely different number on it than he was expecting. He looked around but could see no one about, the occupants of the handful of vans parked around seemingly out and about. He sighed and moved the basket to his other hip, his arms beginning to ache from carrying the load. He continued on the path, thinking that he would surely come across their site soon enough. After another almost ten minutes when he came to yet another unfamiliar site, he had to consider that he might need to retrace his steps and make his way back the way he came. He’d been walking so long that surely the elk would have migrated south for the winter by now and would be gone. Did elk migrate? If he'd ever known, he'd deleted the information by now. Maybe not the best idea in the world, as it would have come in handy about now.

He spotted a large board up ahead with a map on it and he hurried over, trying to figure out where he had gone wrong. He knew he would never hear the end of it from his brother for getting lost in the woods, so the sooner he got back, the sooner he could pretend that nothing had gone wrong. He found their site on the map and his brow furrowed - how the hell had he ended up _here_? Sherlock sighed, knowing that he had quite a walk to get back to the site. He turned, jumping when he came face to face with the ranger from this morning.

“Howdy,” the man greeted him with the same cheerfulness. “Bit lost, are you?”

“I wouldn’t say that...just taking the scenic route.”

The grizzled old man grinned knowingly bit didn’t call him out on it. “If you take that service road over there, you’ll cut out almost half the distance and get back much quicker.”

Feeling like he could kiss the man, Sherlock instead smiled his thanks and set off, the basket of washing now turning into a basket of lead. His back was beginning to ache from twisting slightly to carry the load on his hips so he moved it back in front of him, the tendons on his arms straining. He’d not been walking long before the sun set fully but the overcast sky and half moon brightened the road enough that he didn’t stumble - often. He was just considering giving up and making a den out of the washing when he caught sight of a familiar campervan up ahead. He hurried forwards, seeing that Mycroft had started a campfire, but then his frantic brother appeared in front of him.

“Sherlock! Where have you been? I’ve been so worried!”

“Don’t ask,” he muttered, embarrassment starting to creep in.

“I went looking for you at the laundry room and the children we met earlier said you’d left long ago. The little girl was babbling about how you’d been eaten by wild animals.”

He thrust the basket of washing into Mycroft’s arms and shook his own to return feeling to them. “No need to fret, brother mine, the only wild animal to eat me is you.”

Mycroft glowered at him, not impressed with his flippancy. “Sherlock, I was _worried_. I couldn’t get hold of you on your phone, you just seemed to be gone.” It struck the younger man that Mycroft’s biggest fear was not knowing where Sherlock was at any given moment. The years of surveillance and tailing him had always come from a place of concern, not control. He pulled his phone from his pocket and realised the battery had died.

Sherlock went into the camper, followed closely by Mycroft and he flopped face first onto the bed. “It’s fine now, Mycie I’m back. Can we just forget about it?”

He’d half expected a row - his brother got waspish when he was frightened - but instead, Mycroft lay down on the bed and pulled him to him in a crushing hug. It was then that Sherlock realised that his brother was trembling. He felt awful when he observed that Mycroft had been genuinely worried and he snuggled in close to him. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I got lost, but I’m back now.”

“You’re not allowed to get lost, Sherlock,” Mycroft said fiercely. “ _I cannot lose you_.”

Knowing there was nothing more he could say to calm the older man down, Sherlock just hugged him close, silently assuring him that he wasn’t going anywhere.


	101. Chapter 101

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a Sunday double! Have some more protective Mycie, and romantic Sherlock and then click next chapter :)

It wasn’t often that Mycroft Holmes lost his cool, calm demeanour. It only tended to happen where Sherlock was involved; throw at him a terrorist attack, a military crisis, or a political scandal and he’d get it sorted with the minimum of fuss, but his brother gets lost in a campground? Panic attack ensues. He’d started off merely being curious as to what was taking Sherlock so long to return, and then when the first call to his phone had gone unanswered, he’d felt the first flurry of worry. It wasn’t until he’d made his own way over to the laundry room and been advised that Sherlock had left there some time ago that he felt genuinely worried. More calls went unanswered, and he hurried back to the camper, checking the trail carefully for any signs of foul play.

It wasn’t that he didn’t think Sherlock could look after himself - he had proved himself capable time and time again over the years, but it was that Mycroft _needed_ to be the protector. He’d kept Sherlock safe as best as he was able from the moment his brother had been born, and he had never stopped. He’d failed time and time again (drug habits, getting shot, getting beaten - the list was unacceptably long) but that only pushed him to try harder, do better. Of course, if he was hurt or injured during a _holiday_ , Mycroft would never forgive himself. It was supposed to be a time of rest and relaxation, of spending time together and just taking enjoyment from each other, not running through the woods in a panicked frenzy.

His senses had kicked in after some time, and he realised it was fruitless to leave the site. If Sherlock returned, he’d have no way of knowing. So he set himself a time limit, giving his brother an hour to get back to camp, and if he wasn’t back by then, Mycroft would alert the authorities. The reasonable part of his mind said that the detective had just come across something interesting and had stopped to examine it, whereas the more primal, emotional part was throwing worse and worse scenarios at him. They ranged from falling and spraining an ankle to being dragged into the woods by a band of murderous, cannibal rapists. He started a fire as the sun began to set, trying to keep from freezing to death as he waited outside for his brother to return.

The relief that had flooded through him when Sherlock had stumbled, exhausted back into camp was indescribable. The younger man had been rather flippant about his adventure, and Mycroft had felt a flare of anger go through him, but it was dampened by the relief at seeing his brother safe and well. When Sherlock had collapsed onto the bed, he’d joined him and held him tight, reassuring himself that the love of his life was safe and well. Something of the depth of his distress must have shown through as Sherlock apologised and returned the embrace. He had lain there for a long time, just taking comfort from being close, but now he needed more.

Mycroft rolled them and pushed Sherlock onto his back, straddling his hips and gazing fiercely at him. He had the sudden desire to claim his brother, to put his mark on him, something that essentially meant ‘If lost, return to Mycroft Holmes’. He began to kiss and nip his way down Sherlock’s throat, sucking bruise after bruise into the pale skin, and then moving to unbutton his shirt and adorn his collarbones and chest as well. His jaw was aching by the time he’d finished, and so was his cock. His brother’s breathing was ragged and his eyes were halfway closed, and he was looking up at Mycroft from beneath thick lashes. He could feel the firm flesh of Sherlock’s own erection pushing against his thigh and he rutted himself against the younger man. “I want you,” Mycroft whispered thickly.

“I’m yours,” Sherlock replied.

Mycroft reached for the lube that was stashed on the shelf below the window and placed it on the bed next to them, then helped his brother to work his trousers down over his hips and legs. As soon as Sherlock was naked, he shed his own clothes, and then quickly lubed himself up, spreading the excess over Sherlock’s entrance. He then knelt over him and pulled the blankets up (they hadn't bothered putting the sheets back on yet), covering them both to try and keep warm. He pushed in, not going as slowly as he normally would have but needing to be inside as soon as possible. His brother would most likely feel the stretch for a couple of days to come and that would help to serve as a reminder of how worried Mycroft had been.

He began to rock into Sherlock, his arms cradled around his shoulders, holding him close. A long slender hand trailed patterns over his back, and his skin broke out in goosebumps at the feeling. He kissed Sherlock deeply, claiming him and possessing him, trying his utmost to merge into one being. The lithe man beneath him didn't seem to mind and opened himself up, pulling Mycroft in deeper.  

“I can’t ever lose you,” he said in a quiet, broken voice, not even sure if he had spoken out loud until Sherlock’s arms tightened around him.

“You won’t, Mycie. I swear.”

“I couldn’t live without you, love.”

“Don’t say that,” Sherlock said, shaking his head from side to side, his curls rubbing against Mycroft’s cheeks. “Please, Mycie - never say something like that.”

“It’s the truth,” he said simply, hiding his face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck. “Without you, I am nothing.”

“That’s not true. You are amazing, and you are needed, by so many people.”

Tears had sprung to his eyes and he blinked them back, unsure why he was so damn emotional all of a sudden. Perhaps it was because the Iceman had been dormant for so long now and he had embraced the more open, demonstrative side of himself since their holiday began? Though perhaps it was simply because in loving Sherlock he now knew that he _could_ have a softer side without compromising the rest of his life. Whatever the reason, it was currently a horrible inconvenience. He was crying - during sex! Was that not the most unsexy thing one could do?

If Sherlock noticed, he didn't say anything. He pressed hot kisses to Mycroft neck and then hooked a leg over Mycroft’s and rolled them so he was on top. His brother’s cock slid from him during the manoeuvre and he grasped it in one large hand to guide it back to his hole. They both gasped in pleasure as the younger man sank down onto it, and then he began a slow and sensual pace, grinding himself above Mycroft.

Snaking a hand up Sherlock’s chest, Mycroft rested a palm over his brother’s heart, feeling the strong thrum beneath the skin. It was comforting and helped to ground him, his eyes drying as he received assurance that his lover was safe and well. His other hand wrapped itself around Sherlock’s cock, and he began to stroke the silky flesh, timing his movements so they matched his brother’s

“Feels so good,” Sherlock said in a breathy voice, his eyes remaining locked with Mycroft’s, his pupils blown wide with desire.

“You always feel good,” he replied, thrusting his pelvis up to punctuate his point.

“We were made for each other, Mycie. We fit together like pieces of a puzzle.”

He nodded, having always thought that, even before they had gotten together. “I know.”

Sherlock grinned at him. “You’re the corner edge.”

“Oh?” he asked, a hitch in his voice as the detective canted his hips a particular way that sent a jolt of pleasure through him.

“Oh, yes,” Sherlock said with a nod, his eyes falling closed as concentrated on the feel of his brother deep inside him. “You’re the part that guides the rest; that anchors the other pieces and shapes the picture; the most important piece.”

“And what does that make you?”

“I’m that single piece that goes missing; the one you can’t find and spend ages looking for, getting more and more frustrated - but when you finally do find me, I complete the picture.”

“Very poetic.”

His eyes snapped open and Sherlock beamed at him. “I thought so.”

Mycroft could feel Sherlock’s legs trembling to either side of him and he knew he was close, so he sped up his strokes, even as his brother began to rock his hips faster and faster. Mycroft beat him to the edge first and pumped his seed deep inside Sherlock, crying out as he came. Once he had emptied himself, Sherlock nudged his hand off his prick and replaced it with his own, his steady strokes working himself expertly and half a minute later he was shooting ejaculate over Mycroft’s chest in his own possessive gesture. They then collapsed together, falling onto the bed, neither caring about making a mess.

“I love you,” Sherlock whispered. “And I’m not going anywhere, Mycie. I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” he replied, stealing one last kiss. “And I love you too, Sherlock. Always.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The gorgeous Tikatikox did some more amazing fanart for my story - [these ones based on this chapter](http://childside.tumblr.com/post/164394041428/nsfw-holmescest-fan-art-based-on-a-matter-of). Check out her Tumblr (Childish Side) and show her some love!


	102. Chapter 102

No more snow had fallen overnight but it was still bitterly cold. Sherlock woke first and after enjoying the warmth of the blankets and his brother next to him for a short while, the need to piss was strong enough for him to brave the cold. He took care of himself and then decided that he would take a wander over to the large woodpile near the laundry room so they could have a campfire this morning. He left a note for Mycroft, made sure his phone was fully charged so his brother could contact him if he got worried about him, and then he headed off.

His breath was a thick cloud in the air before him and he tucked his hands under his armpits to keep warm despite the thick gloves he wore. It was still very early, the sun not having fully risen as yet, but there was a good number of people already up and about, preparing for their day. Some were striking tents or packing up caravans, ready to move onto the next phase of their trips, others were stoking campfires and preparing breakfast, and there were a couple of children playing a game of chasey, their parents whispering at them furiously every minute or two to keep the noise down.

As he passed the laundry room and made his way towards the giant woodpile, he noticed a crowd of people gathered there. He recognised the kids from yesterday and headed for them. Penny grinned as she saw him and waved. “Hi Sherlock! You didn't get eaten by a bear!”

He smiled. “No, no I didn’t.”

“I think that man did,” she added, pointing towards something he couldn’t quite see that was beyond the crime scene tape she was standing in front of.

He quirked his eyebrows and then craned his head forward to see what was going on. He could make out several police officers gathered around what was clearly a body on the ground. The man was wearing a khaki coloured jacket and Sherlock was certain it was the ranger he had met yesterday. He glanced back at the children, none of whom seemed to be phased by the sight beyond the tape, but the other adults that had gathered for a sticky beak were throwing disapproving looks at them. “What makes you think he was eaten by a bear?” he asked, earning his own look from the woman closest to them. He ignored her, and focused on the girl.

“His face is all bloody and it looks like it’s been eaten,” she said knowledgeably.

“Have you seen many faces that have been eaten before?” he asked, intrigued.

“Oh yeah, loads.”

“Not _human_ faces,” Matt added when Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

“Oh?”

“We lose lambs to foxes all the time back home and sometimes the dogs scare them off before they can finish eating them.”

“If they get a chook there’s usually nothing left but feathers,” Callum told him. “But they’re smaller and they can scoff them quicker.”

“Minky caught a fox once and she chewed it up pretty good,” Penny said brightly. “She’s our farm dog.”

“She sounds like a good dog,” Sherlock told her. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to just move around there and see if I can see anything more.”

“Do you like looking at yucky stuff?” the girl asked.

He chuckled and shook his head. “No, but I do work with the police back home and I’m rather good at figuring out what happened at crime scenes. Maybe I can help.”

“Are you a private investigator?” Callum asked, his eyes wide with excitement.

“No, I’m something much better than that,” Sherlock told him, carefully not giving away his self proclaimed title. He didn’t want someone overhearing and getting curious as a search on the internet would surely give away his identity. The last thing he needed was someone getting nosey and digging into his private life. He gave the children one last smile and then edged his way around to the left, finding the point where the crime scene tape was wrapped around a pole. He couldn’t see much more from here, but the only police officer on crowd control was over where the group was gathered so he managed to duck under the tape and make his way nearer.

The body was definitely that of the friendly park ranger who had offered advice with their tyres and had given him directions last night when he’d gotten lost. Closer to him it was easy to see that his damaged face wasn’t caused by teeth or even an animal, but it looked to be caused by something very acidic. The skin had bubbled away in some places, allowing red tendons to show from beneath, and in one place on his forehead the bone was showing through.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing? You can’t be here!” His presence had finally been noticed and an angry man was striding towards him, gesturing madly.

“Have you found the container yet? The container that held the acid?” he demanded, ignoring the man’s rant.

“What container? What acid?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “The acid that did that to his face, obviously.”

The policeman’s eyes narrowed. “And just what do you know about that? You have something to do with it?”

He huffed, annoyed that lateral thinking didn’t seem to be a prerequisite for coppers here anymore than it did back home. “Of course not. Look at the footprints in the snow - the ones you blundering idiots haven’t obliterated yet, anyway! They were made by a woman’s shoe, from the size I’d say she’s about five foot four, and rather heavy set. There’s no acid burns on the man’s hands, so he obviously knew her and wasn’t expecting the attack. But look there - he’s not wearing his wedding ring as there’s a pale band where it should be. He removed it but yesterday when I saw him around the campgrounds he was wearing it. So he most likely took it off because he was meeting a lover. I’d say his wife found out about it and came here to get her revenge. If you find the container, you’ll likely have her prints.”

The policeman gaped at him for a long moment, and then called over to his superior. “Boss, come over here, would you! I think we have a suspect.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but roll his eyes again and he looked about the area. A woman of that height could probably only lob a container so far but she’d have wanted to hide it well. His eyes fell on the woodpile and he strode over to it and scrambled up the slope, pushing pieces of wood to the side.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” a woman’s voice came from below and he glanced down to see the lead detective glaring up at him.

“Your job,” he retorted, then turned back around and continued to dig through the pile. Just as he heard the woman bark orders for her team to go up and get him, Sherlock spotted an empty glass bottle. Making sure his hand was covered completely by his glove, he lifted it up triumphantly. “Your murder weapon,” he announced.

Two uniformed officers reached him and one of them snatched the bottle from him, but at least had the sense to put it in an evidence bag. The other grabbed Sherlock’s arms and twisted them behind his back, snapping on metal cuffs.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

“Arresting you, obviously,” the man told him.

“But why? I told you - your suspect is his wife!”

“Sure it is. Yet you can tell us exactly how he died and even where the empty container was. Not suspicious at all,” the copper drawled.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous! This is my job! I’m a Consulting Detective with New Scotland Yard and help them solve the cases they can’t - which is most of them. It seems you could do with one of me over here since you’re obviously just as incompetent on the whole.”

They’d stumbled down the pile until they were on the ground and the detective gave him a piercing look. “Insulting the people who have power over you right now isn’t the best way to help your cause. Now one of my men is going to read you your rights and then you’re going to come with us on a little trip to the station so you can tell us all again just how you know the details of this man’s death.” She jerked her head and the man holding Sherlock’s wrists gave him a push to start him moving towards one of the patrol cars.

Sherlock’s first thought was for Mycroft - how much of a panic would he be in when his brother failed to return for the second day running? And this time he wouldn’t be back in a hurry. He spotted Penny and her brothers still lingering by the tape and he called over to them. “Penny! I need you to tell Mycie what’s happened! Can you find him and tell him to come to the station? We’re at 56C!”

“Quiet you!” the policeman said, pushing him a little harder and causing him to stumble slightly.

Penny was watching wide eyed as Sherlock was hauled off but she caught his eye and nodded, then she and her brothers were off, running towards the site he shared with his brother. His head was pushed down so he wouldn’t hit it as he was guided into the back seat of the cruiser and the door slammed shut behind him. He slumped down in the seat, wondering how the day had gone so horribly wrong.

 

 


	103. Chapter 103

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The gorgeous Tikatikox did some more amazing (NSFW) fanart for my story - [these ones based on chapter 101](http://childside.tumblr.com/post/164394041428/nsfw-holmescest-fan-art-based-on-a-matter-of). Check out her Tumblr (Childish Side) and show her some love!

Mycroft came awake, stretching languidly, the remnants of a pleasant dream lingering in his mind. He and Sherlock had been sitting by a lake, alone but for the sounds of birds in the trees, the sun warm on their faces, the sweet taste of Sherlock’s mouth on his lips. Rolling over in bed, Mycroft reached for Sherlock but found naught but a cooling patch beside him. He couldn’t hear movement in the van and he wondered where his brother had gone. Jumping out of bed and dressing quickly, he stumbled out into the living area and spied a piece of paper on the table. In Sherlock’s untidy scrawl was a note saying he had gone to gather firewood. Mycroft shook his head a little, thinking it way too cold for a campfire but knowing if it would keep Sherlock happy, he would bundle himself up in a heavy jacket and brave the cold to sit by it with him.

He flicked on the kettle. not wanting to wait for the wood to be gathered, the fire started, and then the time it would take for the billy to boil before he had his tea. While he waited, he picked up his phone - retrieved from the glovebox yesterday in order to call Sherlock - and he calculated the time back home. It would be early afternoon and he smiled, dialling a familiar number.

“I was quite certain your phone wouldn’t be in use until you were home,” Anthea said disapprovingly, not bothering with a traditional greeting.

Mycroft chuckled and with his free hand popped a teabag in his cup. “Fret not, my dear - this is a social call.”

“A social call, hmm? And here I am at work. Whatever will my boss say?”

“Bit of a hardarse is he?”

“Most people think so, but I don’t find him too bad.”

He smiled. “He sounds like someone who appreciates how hard you work and how loyal you are.”

“Plus, I know what sort of biscuits he likes with his tea.”

“Ah, there you go - that is vital information. You’re obviously irreplaceable.”

“I like to think so.”

“I  _ know _ so,” he told her, genuinely. He knew the old adage, that no one was irreplaceable, and yet he also knew - without a doubt - that without Anthea at his side, he would not function nearly as productively as he did now. 

“Sir….is everything alright?” There was a note of worry in her voice. “You’re not...sick...or anything, are you?”

“What?” he asked, shocked. He stopped to think about how this call would appear to his PA and then said, “Anthea, I have taught you many things over the years, have I not? What can you deduce about me right now?”

“I thought we didn't do that to each other. We had an agreement!” He’d upset her mightily when he’d correctly deduced how her last long term relationship had ended. He learned quickly that even if someone’s partner was a lying, cheating, arsehole, it still wasn’t appropriate to tell her she should have seen it coming and she was better off without him. Anthea hadn’t made him tea for a week (which he didn’t particularly mind), and had been quiet and withdrawn as well (which he  _ did _ mind about) and it had taken an awkward and emotional discussion to clear the air. This was long before he and Sherlock had gotten together and those sorts of situations were a little beyond his grasp, so he had bumbled through it, desperate to make it better with her. They’d both promised to keep from deliberately deducing the other, and then Mycroft had made a few calls and had her ex signed up to every promotional email possible, and then it was all alright again.

“I’m giving you permission so it doesn’t count.”

“Okay then.” She made a humming noise as she thought and Mycroft poured hot water into his cup and doctored his tea with milk and sugar. “You said this was a social call, and you’ve yet to ask about work -”

“And I won’t,” he interjected.

“Right, so purely social which means you are very relaxed. You’ve been extra nice to me and have let me know how much you appreciate me, but you’re not dying and since this isn’t about work, you don’t need me to destabilise any governments.”

“Not today, anyway.”

“Well, I would have to say that from the evidence I have, that you are deliriously happy. Is that correct?”

He grinned. “Entirely. Well deduced.”

She laughed. “You’re on holiday with your brother, sir, and you’re madly in love. It wasn’t too hard a conclusion to come to.”

“And yet you thought I was sick!”

“Well, generally you don’t say such nice things about me.”

“Which is something I shall need to work on in future. I need you to know how much I appreciate you, Anthea.”

“You’re being very sweet, but I do know.”

“Good. Now, you know what I want to know - spill the beans.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she declared.

“Yes, you do.”

“Nope, no idea. You’ve obviously lost the plot.”

“Anthea, I will hear about it from Mark anyway.”

“So why would you need to hear it twice?”

“Anthea!”

“Urgh!  _ Fine _ . We went for dinner last night and then went for a walk afterwards and then had coffee.”

“Coffee as in the beverage? Or coffee as in -”

“ _ If you finish that sentence I swear to God I will resign! _ ”

He laughed, unable to help himself. “I am delighted to hear your first date went so well. Is it expected that there will be a second?”

“It did go well, and there will be a second, but it’s just early days, sir. We’ve known each other for years through work but getting to know what someone is like outside of work is very different. But he’s a really great guy and I hope things continue to go well.”

“As do I. You are both wonderful individuals who deserve happiness and I think you could be very happy together.”

“I’m sensing a ‘but’ coming.”

“Don’t hurt him, Anthea. I know you wouldn’t do so deliberately, but please try your best not to. Mark has become a very close friend of mine and I care for him dearly - just as I care for you.”

“You know people don’t begin relationships with the intention of breaking someone’s heart, don’t you? I can’t guarantee what will happen down the track, sir.”

“I know that, Anthea. Just promise you’ll try? And I promise to not interfere in your relationship.”

“Good - the last thing we need is your exceptionally long nose poking into our business.”

“It’s a very regal nose, I’ll have you know. You’d be lucky to have it sniffing around.”

“We really wouldn’t.”

He laughed again and changed the subject. “So, have there been any issues with my father getting to visit my sister?”

“None whatsoever. He’s now seeing her twice a week and they seem to be enjoying the visits.”

“That’s good to hear. And other than that, is Eurus well?”

“She’s been very accommodating with requests we’ve sent to Dawson to have her analyse, and she has been doing more of her art.”

“I’m glad to hear that. She takes great joy from her drawing.” He went to ask another question but was cut off by the sound of children screaming his name, and then a pounding on the door to the van. He opened it and saw the anxious faces of the children they had befriended on the glacier.

“Mycie” Penny cried. “Come quick! Sherlock’s been arrested for eating a man’s face!”


	104. Chapter 104

Mycroft stared at the children in disbelief, deducing from their anxiety that something had in fact gone horribly wrong, but not being able to compute the reason Penny had given. “Pardon?” he asked.

The eldest, Matt he was sure his name was, shook his head. “I don’t think he actually ate the man’s face, but there was a man who was dead and the police arrested Sherlock for it.”

“What on earth,” Mycroft muttered. “Why would they do that?”

“Because he found something,” Penny told him. “He went beyond the tape and was talking to the grumpy policeman and then that man started yelling and Sherlock then climbed up the wood pile and he found something that the policemen were looking for and the lady policeman told the grumpy policeman that Sherlock was to be arrested and then they put him in handcuffs and Sherlock was a bit mad but the lady policeman ordered him to be taken away and then Sherlock yelled at us to come and get you and we ran and ran and ran as fast as we could to get here and here we are.” She stopped and took in a huge breath.

He sighed, easily able to picture Sherlock sneaking onto a crime scene and deducing what had happened, only to be arrested for it, since that was how he had met Lestrade. “Thank you for coming and letting me know. I appreciate it very much.”

“Are you going to go and rescue him from jail?” Callum asked.

He gave the children a smile. “I certainly am.”

“Will they let you?” the boy asked, a worried frown on his face.

“I have had lots of practice at rescuing Sherlock so I’m very good at it. Don’t you worry yourselves over it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d better start.”

They nodded and with a final wave from Penny, headed back to their own campsite. Mycroft lifted the phone back to his ear, knowing Anthea would have stayed on the line. “Did you catch that, my dear?”

“I did,” she said with the hint of amusement in her voice. “Seems he can’t stay out of trouble, wherever he goes.”

Mycroft sighed audibly. “No, no he cannot. Would you please find the details of the person in charge of the local station for me, plus the Chief of Police for Alberta? I’ll also require directions sent to my phone for the location of the station.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Thank you, Anthea. I’ll contact you later to let you know how it goes.”

“Thank you for that, sir. Good luck.”

He disconnected and then made another call immediately. “Lestrade,” the man’s gravelly voice said as he answered the call.

“Detective Inspector, it’s Mycroft Holmes.”

“Mycroft? Aren’t you on the other side of the world? What’s happened?”

“I do not have all the details as yet, but it appears my wayward brother has been arrested.”

“Arrested? For what?”

“From what I’ve heard and can deduce, for storming into a murder investigation and telling them details of the case.”

Mycroft waited patiently as Lestrade laughed on the other end of the phone. And waited. After a full minute, the DI got himself under control and composed himself. “Sorry, Mycroft, sorry,” he said, breathlessly. “It’s just, our boy just can’t help himself can he? He’s a pain in the arse to coppers no matter which side of the ocean he’s on.”

Despite the situation, Mycroft found himself smiling. Unlike having Sherlock getting lost in the woods, this was familiar territory for the diplomat. He wasn’t worried, or scared, just resigned to having to take the day to convince the powers that be to release Sherlock. Just another day in the life of Mycroft Holmes. “No, no he cannot. I’m sure Sherlock has told them about the work he does for New Scotland Yard, but I doubt they’ll look into that on his say so. I’ll have a discussion with them and I’m sure they’ll be placing a few calls. If you could verify the situation, you would be doing me a great service.”

“I’ll keep my phone next to me at all times,” Lestrade assured him. “I’m sure they will, but suggest they go through the main switchboard to have the call transferred to me. That way it’s much more official. Plus, they can always speak to my boss since Sherlock is sort of officially on the books now.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you once again, Detective Inspector.”

“How many times have I asked you to call me Greg?” Said in an exasperated tone.

Mycroft smiled. “Forgive me, Gregory - I tend to fall back on formality as my status quo.”

“I suppose I can forgive you since we tend to speak generally only in stressful situations.”

Mycroft felt a pang of guilt go through him, worried Lestrade would think he was taking advantage of him. “I have never meant -”

“I know, Mycroft, I know. It’s not like you come along to pub nights when I can drag Sherlock out to them. I just hope you know that I consider you to be a friend and even if we’re working together to get Sherlock out of the shit, there’s no need to be so formal.”

“I shall take that under consideration. I really must be off now.”

“Of course - you have a Consulting Prat to break out of jail.”

He smiled again at the sheer fondness in the DI’s voice, more grateful than the man would ever know that he had always looked out for Sherlock. “I’m sure we’ll speak soon, Gregory. Thank you.”

“My pleasure, Mycroft. Now go get our boy.”

He ended the call and then moved into the bedroom, pulling out one of the suits hanging in the closet. He’d hoped to not have to even look at them until they were back in London but he wanted to look as official as possible for this chore. Of course, the officialness was diminished somewhat as he was driving a campervan, but as long as too many people at the local station didn’t see him arrive, then he wouldn’t lose too much of the impact. He allowed the familiar stillness and calm of The Iceman settle over him, preparing for what was to come. He needed to lock away all his emotion, all the love he felt for Sherlock so he didn’t allow his feelings to get in the way of what he had to do. If he let that creep in, he would be less effective, and this would drag out much longer than it need to.

He followed the directions Anthea had sent him, making the drive into town and managed to find a park in the carpark of the small shopping centre. Sherlock was much better at parking the van than he was and the last thing he needed was to get into a bingle with one of the police cruisers in the small lot of the police station. It also allowed for a much more dignified entrance to the station and first impressions mattered. 

An older man was on the front counter and he looked up with a polite expression, though didn’t appear too affected by the official look.

“My name is Mycroft Holmes, and I’m a member of Her Majesty’s Diplomatic Service,” he introduced himself, flashing his identification. “I wish to speak to the person in charge - I believe it’s a Superintendent Matthews?”

The man looked slightly more impressed at finding out Mycroft’s position and he sat a little straighter in his chair. “May I ask what it’s in regard to, sir?”

“Certainly. My brother is being held here and I’m here to have him released.”

 


	105. Chapter 105

Interrogation rooms seemed to be the same the world over and if he wasn’t aware that he had travelled halfway across the world, Sherlock could trick himself into believing he was at NSY. The same grey table, the same two way mirror, the same plain concrete floor. He hadn’t been cuffed to the table so that was a plus at least, but other than when he’d been brought in and then when a second officer had brought him a paper cup full of water, he’d not seen anyone for over an hour. He knew the reasoning behind it - to unsettle him, make him nervous, and more likely to spill the beans, but it wouldn’t work. For one, he was not so easily rattled, and two - well, before long the cavalry would arrive in the form of his brother. He felt a little bad for the local coppers, knowing they probably didn’t deserve to have the full weight of The British Government’s ire brought down upon them today, but they only had themselves to blame. If they’d just been reasonable and seen the logic in his deductions, they wouldn’t have to deal with an angry Mycroft. Plus, they’d apprehend the real culprit much sooner.

More time passed; he estimated about twenty minutes. The room was designed to make it hard to determine how long the suspect had been in there for. There were no clocks and no windows, just the suspect and their supposed guilt, eating away at them. Sherlock used the time to relive his bedroom adventures with his brother the night previously, wriggling a little on the hard chair at the slight ache he felt deep within. Mycroft hadn’t been overly gentle, and he found himself relishing the reminder of their coupling. The more he remembered, the tighter his pants got, until he was fully hard. He then had to take some time to dwell on other, less arousing thoughts in order to keep himself out of jail. The local detectives already thought he had something to do with the murder and if they saw his current state, they would assume he was some kind of sexual sadist who got off on murdering local park rangers. 

He’d just managed to get his body back under control when the door to the room opened and the woman from the crime scene entered, along with a man who Sherlock remembered as being there as well but one he hadn’t interacted with.

“Mr Holmes,” the woman greeted him, her almond shaped eyes regarding him cooly. “I’m Detective Ling and this is Detective Gladman.”

He inclined his head but didn’t speak.

“Can you tell me what you were doing at the campground this morning?” she asked after they’d taken their seats.

He resisted rolling his eyes at their predictable line of questioning. “I’ve been staying there, in site 56C.”

“Camping?”

“In a campervan, yes.”

“I see. And are you traveling with anyone?”

“My brother.” He thought it best to not try and convince them they were husbands since they’d probably gain access to his records from Lestrade to verify his story. He just hoped that they didn’t interview anyone at the grounds who had seen them interacting in a very non-brotherly way.

“How long have you been camping together?”

“Just over a week. We got off to a late start due to being caught up in the attacks in Vancouver.”

“Vancouver?” Gladman said, speaking for the first time. His eyes were narrowed, his skin wrinkling all the way to his ears. “What was your involvement with those events.”

He sighed. “My brother is a British Diplomat and was attending the conference. I was at the ball as his guest and we helped contain the suspects.”

“I see. Attend lots of fancy balls with your brother, do you?” the man asked, a slight sneer on his face.

Despite the truth to his snarky implication, Sherlock was starting to get angry. “Not that it’s any of your business,” he snapped, “but our mother recently passed away and my brother and I have been trying to fix the somewhat antagonistic relationship we have.”

“I’m sure traveling together in a cosy little campervan will do that,” Gladman goaded him.

He was suddenly very grateful for the jacket he was still wearing, knowing the t shirt he had underneath allowed the lovebites Mycroft had adorned him with to show. Sherlock vowed no matter how hot he got in the interrogation room, he would leave the jacket on. “What exactly is it that you’re insinuating, Detective?” he asked in a cold voice.

Ling shot her partner a dirty look. “He’s not insinuating anything, Mr Holmes,” she said placatingly. “Now, you’ve been staying at the campgrounds. Can anyone besides your brother verify your whereabouts between the hours of 6pm last night and 4am this morning?”

The only other person he’d seen was the dead man himself and Sherlock knew that that tidbit of information would do nothing but inflame the situation. “No,” he said. “I did some laundry yesterday afternoon but then we had a quiet night at our site. We didn’t see anyone else.”

“And had you had any dealings with the deceased man, a Mr Harry Prendergast, in the lead up to his death?” she asked.

He was aware that they knew he had seen the ranger the day before as he had mentioned it during his deduction. “We saw him yesterday morning - he offered us some advice regarding driving in the snow and offered to help us attach snow chains if it got heavy enough. That was the only time we had seen him.”

“I see.” Ling made some notes on her pad and was quiet while she scribbled. Once she was done, she looked up and met Sherlock’s eyes. “Now, Mr Holmes, can you explain how it is that you know so much about the circumstances surrounding Prendergast’s murder?”

“I told you - I am a Consulting Detective for the Met. I make observations and from those, make deductions about scenarios.”

“So you’re one of those frauds that read people and scam them for money,” Gladman said with a snort.

His anger got away from him and Sherlock snapped. “No, I observe and I deduce. For example, Detective, I can tell that you have recently separated from your wife, even though you are trying to convince your colleagues that everything at home is still rosie. After you left work last night, you went to a local bar where they have topless waitresses, and then you stopped for Thai on the way home. The food was much spicier than you usually prefer and it’s been causing you some upset today. You’re behind on your mortgage repayments and are likely to lose your house soon, but if you stopped sending money to the woman you met online from Thailand, you’d probably manage your finances much better - plus your wife wouldn’t have left you. You’re holding out hope that the woman will move here and start a life with you, but you’re mistaken - she isn’t actually a she, but a he and he’s playing you for the cash you send him. If you need an example of a fraud who reads people and scams them for money, look no further than the person you had a wank to this morning before you came to work.”

Gladman was gaping at him, and Ling looked exasperated with her partner. It wasn’t hard to tell she had had suspicions about many of Sherlock’s deductions herself and this had just confirmed them.

“You can’t  _ know _ all that!” Gladman stuttered as he gathered his senses. “Have you been spying on me?”

Sherlock couldn’t hold back anymore and rolled his eyes. “Of course not, you idiot. How pathetic would I have to be to waste my time on the likes of you? I told you, I observe, something that you clearly have no experience with.”

“Mr Holmes,” Ling said, warningly. 

He bit his lip, refraining from adding to his scathing retort. 

“Why don’t you go over again with me what you observed at the scene of the murder this morning?” she said, extending an olive branch.

Sherlock nodded. “Of course.”

Before he could say anything else, the door opened and a tall man with a pockmarked face entered. “Detectives,” he said. “I require a word.”

Gladman threw Sherlock a suspicious look, and Ling looked surprised but nodded and rose from her seat. “Of course, Superintendent Matthews.”

They followed the man from the room, leaving Sherlock alone. As soon as the door shut behind them, he allowed a grin to spread across his face.

The cavalry had arrived. 


	106. Chapter 106

Two detectives were shown into the office where Mycroft was waiting and he stood, but didn’t offer them a hand to shake, projecting an aura of importance. He scanned them quickly and instantly picked up on the myriad of dirty secrets that coated the man, wincing internally. Sherlock would surely have been unable to hold his tongue and airing the man’s dirty laundry in front of his partner would not have boded well for his brother. At least the female detective seemed to have a level head on her shoulders and he hoped she had been leading the interview and had been able to keep it marginally civil. 

The Superintendent ushered them all to a small meeting table on the far side of his office so they could sit. “Ling, Gladman, this is Mr Mycroft Holmes, of his Majesty’s Diplomatic Service. He is also the brother of the gentleman you are currently interviewing.”

“Come to use your clout to get your baby brother out of this mess, huh?” Gladman sneered. “Typical pompous prat thinks he’ll get away with murder thanks to having family in high places.”

“ _ Detective! _ ” Matthews snapped. “You will refrain from speaking in such a disrespectful manner to Mr Holmes, or you will find yourself on suspension until further notice.”

The man’s cheeks flushed red at the reprimand and Ling moved imperceptibly away from the man, distancing herself from his stupidity.

Mycroft waved a hand regally at the Superintendent. “It’s quite alright,” he said magnanimously. He turned to look at the idiot detective. “I am, in fact, here to put an end to this pointless interrogation so you waste no further resources on my brother, and can find and arrest the real culprit.” He gestured to a notepad he could see on the corner of Matthews’ desk. “May I?” he asked.

Matthews nodded. “Of course.”

Mycroft picked up the pad and wrote down some information. “Here is the number for New Scotland Yard’s main switchboard. If you call them and ask to speak to a Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, he can confirm that my brother works with him regularly and will verify Sherlock’s modus operandi. If you do not take the good DI at his word, his Chief Superintendent will be more than willing to clear up any concerns you may have. If you  _ still _ require further clarification, Lady Elizabeth Smallwood of MI6 can confirm Sherlock has undertaken work for the Service previously, and there is also a contact at Buckingham Palace that can also offer clarification.” 

The two detectives were beginning to look worried, and Matthews hurried to placate Mycroft. “No, no, I’m sure a phone call to NSY will suffice, Mr Holmes.”

He graced them with a small smile. “I understand that the circumstances are unfamiliar to yourselves and that all you are trying to do is find the person responsible for this heinous crime. Whilst I do not fault you for that at all, I do hope we can have this matter cleared up as soon as possible so my brother and I can continue on with our vacation.”

“I’ll personally ensure he’s released as soon as possible, Mr Holmes,” the Superintendent assured him. “Ling, if you’d be so kind as to place the call straight away. Gladman - please see that Mr Holmes is furnished with a cup of tea while he waits.”

The man glared but didn’t dare contradict his superior. As he stood, Mycroft stopped him with a piercing stare. “I’m sure my brother would appreciate a bracing cup of tea as well if he hasn’t already been provided with one.”

The man opened his mouth to protest, but on seeing the look on Matthews’ face, closed it again. He gave a curt nod. “Of course, sir.”

“Please feel free to utilise my office while you wait,” Matthews told him graciously.

“Thank you, I appreciate that.”

Mycroft was left alone for the time being and he decided that whilst he had time to spare, he would compose an email to his father and also one to Mark. He could have used the time to check over his work emails, but he had made the decision to leave that behind for the duration of the trip and he was not about to renege on that promise to himself now. He pulled out his phone and began writing.

Gladman returned after a short while with the tea, and although he placed it on the table more heavily than was polite, Mycroft had to admit the man made a good cuppa. It was strong and just the way he liked it, and he’d finished it before it had even a chance to cool.

It was perhaps an hour later that Matthews returned and he was followed closely by Sherlock. Mycroft resisted the urge to run to his brother and hold him close, and the half step Sherlock took towards him proved he was fighting the same impulses. “All sorted, Mr Holmes,” Matthew said, offering him a smile. “I do hope you’ll accept my apologies for this inconvenience.”

“Thank you, Superintendent,” he said, shaking the man’s hand. “Your timely handling of the matter is most appreciated.”

Sherlock snorted. “Timely? Prendergast’s wife would have had ample time to flee the border by now.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft admonished, shooting him a look.

“I’m just saying!” the Consulting Detective protested, but then fell silent.

“You’ll be happy to know that the woman was still at her place of residence and is now in police custody,” Matthews advised them. 

“We’ll leave you to your investigation then,” Mycroft said, giving the man another small smile. Now that Sherlock’s release had been granted, he could afford to be extra courteous. 

They were shown out of the station and Mycroft led his brother across the road to the carpark where the campervan was parked. He kept an eye on the station but they didn’t seem to be being observed, but he didn’t want to take any chances nonetheless. He opened the rear door and gestured for Sherlock to step into the back. “Are we not going back to the campground?” his brother asked innocently.

“Not yet,” Mycroft growled at him.

Sherlock grinned but followed his brother’s instructions and stepped into the rear of the van. Mycroft followed and locked the door behind them, and then turned and pulled Sherlock into a crrushing embrace. “You just can’t help yourself, can you!”

He felt Sherlock smirk against his neck. “If I hadn’t have said anything, they’d have taken forever to solve the case. You wouldn’t want to see a cold blooded killer go loose, would you?”

He tutted. “I wouldn’t call a scorned wife a cold blooded killer, brother mine. I doubt she was in any danger of going on a spree.”

“Still, they needed the help.”

“But did you have to go about it so…” He trailed off, trying to come up with an apt description.

“Imperiously? Arrogantly? Condemningly?”

Mycroft chuckled. ‘I’m sure there are numerous adverbs that could be applied.”

Sherlock turned his face and pressed a kiss to Mycroft’s throat. “Thank you for coming to my rescue. Again.”

“You know I’d do anything for you, Sherlock.”

“I do. I’m glad that I haven’t made you get me off on a genuine murder charge this time, just a false accusation.”

He didn’t reply, just squeezed Sherlock tighter. The days after Magnusson’s death were some of the darkest Mycroft had ever lived through. He had walked a fine line between trying to find what appeared to be a genuine punishment for his brother, but one that he would be able to tweak so he could intervene at a later time to bring his brother home safely, all without raising suspicions from his colleagues. Of course, the game Eurus had played with Moriarty’s recordings had saved him from having to implement it but still, it was a time he’d much rather forget. 

Sherlock seemed to sense his melancholy and he pulled away so he could kiss him properly. “I know I’ve never said it enough - or at all - but I appreciate all the times you’ve saved my arse,” he whispered after he’d broken the kiss.

“You never need to thank me for doing that,” Mycroft protested.

“Oh, Mycie, but I do. I don’t ever want you to think that I take you for granted. Let me show you how much it means to me.”

“How will you do that?”

The look Sherlock directed at him could only be described as smoldering. “How about we make our way back to camp and I show you?”

Mycroft smiled and pulled him in for another kiss. “That sounds wonderful,” he murmured against his lips. 

 


	107. Chapter 107

The entrance to the campground was apparently under surveillance as they drove in, as a small person jumped up from his hiding spot in the bushes and ran alongside the campervan, before wheeling off down a side track. The brothers could hear him yelling, “Matt! Penny! They’re back!”

They grinned at each other. “Looks like you have a fan club, brother mine,” Mycroft told him.

Sherlock couldn’t help but be secretly pleased. He was missing Rosie so much and he hadn’t realised how much it would affect him by not having some form of affection from a child. Only a couple of years ago, he would have struggled with having such interactions with children, but now he found himself enjoying them. The siblings weren’t Rosie, but the fact they had taken to him and seemed to care about what happened to him still warmed his heart. It would only be a matter of days until he saw Rosie again, but for today, he would enjoy the friendship that he seemed to have struck up with the three Australian children. 

They pulled into their site and by the time they had gotten out of the van, the siblings had appeared. “Sherlock! Mycie rescued you!” Penny cried as she skidded to a stop in front of him, grinning madly.

He reached down to ruffle her hair. “That he did.”

“I’m so glad,” she told him. “Matt said bad things happen to people in jail and I didn’t want bad things to happen to you.”

“Did he now?” Sherlock said, looking to the eldest with a raised brow. “Know much about that, do you?” he asked.

Matt blushed. “I watch telly,” he muttered, kicking at the fallen leaves beneath his feet.

Sherlock laughed. “Yes, well, thanks to Mycie, I avoided any unpleasantness so nothing to worry about.”

Mycroft had joined him and wrapped an arm about his waist. “I couldn’t have you rotting away in a prison cell, could I? You’d miss our flight home.”

“You’re leaving soon?” Penny asked, her face crestfallen.

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, we’ll be starting our drive back to Vancouver tomorrow. We fly home to London in three days.”

All three children looked sad at this, but before they could say more, a woman’s voice could be heard calling for them. The blonde lady from their glacier tour appeared, looking relieved. “There you lot are! We’re going to be late to meet Auntie Jocelyn.”

“Awww, Mum, do we have to go?” Callum whined. 

“Yes, you do.” She looked over to the brothers. “I’m so sorry if they’re bothering you.”

“They’ve been no problem at all,” Sherlock assured her honestly.

“Can we come and say goodbye in the morning?” Penny asked.

“We’d be most upset if you didn’t,” Mycroft told her with a smile.

She beamed at them and then waved goodbye as their mother herded them from the site. They watched them go and then Sherlock turned and wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s neck. “Now, I believe I was supposed to be showing you a demonstration of my appreciation,” he purred.

Mycroft laughed. “Are you immovable on that?” he asked.

Sherlock quirked his lip. “Why? Do you have something else in mind?”

The older man shrugged. “I just thought we haven’t had a chance to go for a little hike as yet and I thought perhaps we could do that before we lose the light.”

“ _ You _ want to go hiking?”

“Well, maybe not hiking  _ hiking _ , but a stroll through the woods would be rather nice, don’t you think.”

He considered this. “I suppose walking with you would be much more fun than wandering around with a washing basket.”

Mycroft laughed and pulled him in for a kiss. “There will be plenty of time tonight for your little demonstration.”

“You know that’s twice now you’ve used the word  _ little _ ,” Sherlock said with a pout. “I’m starting to get a complex, Mycie.”

His brother tutted at him. “Always so sensitive, brother mine. You must realise how much I adore your cock.”

Sherlock couldn’t help the low groan that escaped his throat at Mycroft’s choice of words. His brother  _ knew _ the effect that had on him and considering he wanted to go for a jaunt in the woods instead of a romp in their bed, he most definitely wasn’t playing fair.

“There’s nothing small about it, my love. It fills me up so deliciously, rock hard and satiny smooth at the same time, as you pump yourself in and out of my arse, spilling your seed so very deep inside of me.”

Sherlock groaned again and hid his face against Mycroft’s neck. “I hate you,” he muttered.

“I don't think you do,” Mycroft countered. He pushed his pelvis forward until their twin bulges were pressing against each other. “In fact, I have absolute proof that you don’t hate me. You desire me, want to take me apart piece by piece, until I’m shuddering beneath you and shooting my load over your hot flesh.”

“Urgh, why are you doing this?” he demanded, his cock twitching in his pants.

Mycroft nipped at his ear and then pressed a kiss to the shell. “Because it’s lovely to watch you squirm, Sherlock.”

“You’re evil.”

“Many would agree with you.”

“I want you.”

“I know.”

“But you’re going to make me wait?”

“Of course.”

“Have a mentioned how much I hate you?”

“Not in the last twenty seconds or so.”

“I hate you.”

“I love you, too.”

~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock pressed himself harder against Mycroft’s back, his brother’s cheek pressing against the soft moss that covered the tree trunk. One hand held his brother’s hip and the other was snaking around under his clothes, working the fastenings of his jeans open. “I’m going to have you right here,” he whispered hotly in his ear. “On the side of this track where anyone could come across us.” It was an unlikely threat - they had walked far enough that they were quite a distance from the campground and they hadn’t seen a single soul since they’d started. 

Mycroft whimpered and twisted his head even more, seeking out Sherlock’s lips. They shared a deep kiss and then Sherlock was pushing his brother’s jeans and pants down, exposing him to the elements. Sherlock dropped to his hunches so the glorious, pale arse was in front of him. He took hold of the plush globes, squeezing and massaging them and then he pulled them apart to reveal the pink, starburst of Mycroft’s hole. He leaned forward and licked a stripe over it, breathing in the earthy scent that never failed to make him hard and wanting. He then began to work it over even more, making the entrance slick with his saliva. While he worked, he undid his own jeans and pulled his aching cock free, and then blindly reached into his pocket for the travel sized packet of lube he’d stuffed in there when he’d gotten changed. He had to pull away and use both hands to open the lube, but he sank his teeth into one fleshy cheek, sucking hard to distract Mycroft from what he was doing. His brother moaned and bucked, and Sherlock pushed him firmly against the tree trunk. “You wanted to be at one with nature today,” he teased. “How does that lovely soft moss feel against that aching cock of yours?” 

He finished lubing up his cock and wiped his hands on his jeans, then reached up again to take hold of Mycroft’s arse, pushing him forward in small, pulsing movements, forcing his lover to rut against the tree. Mycroft gasped at the odd sensation, but it was a gasp of pleasure. Sherlock stood and used his foot to knock Mycroft’s legs further apart, and then he lined himself up and began to sink slowly inside. He bracketed Mycroft’s shoulders with his arms, his hands bracing against the cool, soft moss on the trunk, and he began to make small, shallow thrusts. His brother was pressed firmly against the tree now and so there was no give, but each move forward jostled him, causing his cock to slide against the plant. Sherlock grinned, unseen, knowing that neither brother had ever imagined themselves doing something so filthy and unprecedented but finding it more erotic than he’d ever have thought. He allowed one arm to drop down and he worked his hand until it was between Mycroft’s stomach and his cock, with his palm against the hard, hot flesh of his erection. He thrust again, Mycroft’s cock sliding between Sherlock’s hand on one side and the cool moss on the other. He whimpered and Sherlock bucked his hips a little more forcefully. “Enjoying your commune with nature?” he asked.

“Shut up!” Mycroft whined, but there was no heat in his words.

He chuckled, a low, deep sound directly in Mycroft’s ear and it seemed to be the catalyst for Mycroft’s orgasm. His brother cried out and shuddered against him, and Sherlock could feel his cock twitching against his palm. He dropped his other arm as well, wrapped it around Mycroft’s waist and then used the leverage to fuck him hard. He thrust deeply into his brother, the moans and whimpers he elicited becoming slightly pained as he worked his oversensitive brother. Before it could become truly uncomfortable, he spilled himself deep inside, his movements stuttering to a halt as he pulsed inside of Mycroft.

They staggered backwards, breathless, and they sank down against a nearby log, not bothering to cover themselves yet. Sherlock twined their fingers together and lifted their hands to press a kiss to Mycroft’s knuckles. “Good?” he asked.

Mycroft blushed mightily. “Erm, yes.”

He laughed, but it wasn’t at Mycroft, but rather at the ridiculousness of the situation. “I promise no one will ever learn that I made you fuck a tree.”

Mycroft buried his face in his hands, but his blush was still visible on his ears and neck. Sherlock rubbed his back soothingly. “I have never been so mortified,” Mycroft muttered.

“Please, don’t be,” Sherlock hurried to say. “I found it sexy as fuck, Mycie.”

“Really?” he asked, peeking up at his younger brother.

Sherlock pulled his hands away and gave him a kiss on the tip of his nose. “Really. There is nothing sexier than you in any form of sexual conduct and that will never change.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“That’s reassuring to hear.”

“Why is that?” he asked, a little confused.

“I thought perhaps your ardour for me would wane now that I have a green dick.”

Sherlock glanced down and saw that Mycroft’s spent member  _ was _ tinged green and he began to laugh. It wasn’t long before Mycroft joined in and it was a long time before they composed themselves enough to begin the trek back to the campsite.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that escalated quickly...I was going to tag for a 'treesome' but knew it would get misread as 'threesome' and I'm sure I'll get yelled at enough as it is without getting into that argument again...


	108. Chapter 108

For the rest of the afternoon, Mycroft planned his revenge on Sherlock. He knew his brother had been making him pay for delaying their bedroom romp in favour of a walk, and although at the time it had been arousing, the more time Mycroft had to reflect on it, the more embarrassed he became. It was rather like the times during puberty when you were so desperate for something,  _ anything _ , that you would raid the larder for the most phallic shaped vegetables you could find. It was exciting and did the trick, but once the job was done however, you couldn’t look a roasted carrot in the face again for at least a month. 

Every time he stepped outside and caught sight of one of those moss covered tree trunks, he would blush cherry red. Sherlock was an absolute prat about it and would catch his eye with a smirk, causing his blush to grow. Deep down he knew that his brother had found the whole experience just as arousing as Mycroft had, but when ledgers were added up, it wasn’t Sherlock who had rutted against a damn tree! 

And so Sherlock was going to pay. In a sexy way - Mycroft  _ was _ a benevolent older brother. He took the first shower and as soon as Sherlock was locked in the tiny cubicle, Mycroft got to work, rummaging through his brother’s luggage to find the accessories he’d used on Mycroft during their stay at the Chateau. He hid them away and then replaced everything else exactly as it had been so there could be no suspicions. Then he’d set about preparing dinner, using up the random odds and ends they had leftover to make a pasta sauce. 

Sherlock finished in the shower and then came into the small kitchenette and wrapped his arms around his waist from behind. He leaned his head on Mycroft’s shoulder as he watched the sauce bubbling away in the pot. “That smells delicious,” he rumbled in his low baritone. Mycroft felt a shiver go down his spine, never quite getting used to the effect his brother’s voice had on him, especially when spoken directly in his ear.

“I figured we may as well use everything up instead of buying more groceries.”

“You were always much better in the kitchen than I was,” he said as Mycroft lifted the spoon and allowed him to taste the sauce.

“You didn't do too bad a job of wining and dining me at the beginning,” he said, turning his head and pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek.

He heard his brother give a little sigh. “Some days that feels an eternity ago, and other times I can’t believe we’ve had  _ this _ for a year now.”

Mycroft placed the spoon across the top of the pot and then twisted around in Sherlock’s arms so they were facing one another. “I suppose it’s because we’ve known each other our entire lives.”

“Do you have any regrets?” Sherlock asked quietly, his blue-green eyes seeming to cloud with doubts.

Mycroft held back the quip about using ‘nature based sex toys’, knowing his brother’s question was serious and not wanting to diminish it with his flippancy. “Not a single one,” he told him, then moved closer for a kiss. He reached up and tucked a damp curl behind Sherlock’s ear and then gently caressed his cheek. “Despite all my words, I simply cannot express just how much I love you, Sherlock, and how happy I am that you return that love. We have our challenges, yes, and sometimes it’s not easy, but I wouldn’t change a thing.”

Sherlock leaned their foreheads together and they remained like that for a few minutes, just sharing breath and taking comfort from the proximity. The pot began to bubble and Mycroft twisted around so he could give it a stir, but Sherlock remained where he was, still embracing the older man. Mycroft smiled to himself, pleased with how affectionate his brother was being. Of course, it wouldn’t save him from Mycroft’s plans, but perhaps he wouldn’t torture him  _ quite _ as much?

No, that was a lie. Mycroft was going to make him pay.

“I spoke to Anthea,” he said, having forgotten to tell Sherlock this due to the whole ‘getting arrested for murder’ thing.

“Oh! Did she tell you how it went?”

“It was like pulling teeth, but she finally spilled the beans.”

“And?”

“And what?” Mycroft asked innocently.

“ _ Mycie _ ,” Sherlock growled into his ear.

“Yes?”

“Do you want me to pull  _ your _ teeth?” he asked, nipping at his brother’s earlobe.

Mycroft chuckled. “My, my, brother dear - who would ever have thought you would be so impatient for  _ gossip _ ?”

“And who would ever have thought I’d be fucking my brother every night? People change, Mycie,  _ now tell me what she said! _ ”

“Or what?” he asked, enjoying the early start to Sherlock’s torturous night.

Sherlock pressed even closer to him, crowding him up against the bench, but being mindful of the stovetop. “Or I’ll make you pay.”

“Oh dear, that wasn’t even threatening enough to scare Roise,” he admonished. “Would you like to try again? Perhaps add some details so I know just how you plan to make me pay.”

His brother growled again in his ear. “Just  _ tell me _ ,” he pleaded.

“What’s wrong? Unable to use that big brain of yours to come up with a suitable threat?” he teased.

Sherlock pressed against him even harder and Mycroft could feel he was half hard in his jeans from their embrace. “Why won’t you just tell me?” he whined.

Mycroft gave a theatrical sigh and tapped the spoon on the side of the pot and then lay it to one side. He leaned back against Sherlock, enjoying the warmth at his back. “Very well. Dinner was a success. They both enjoyed it so much that they prolonged the evening with a walk, and then they had coffee.”

“Coffee as in coffee, or coffee as in...you know?”

He grinned. “Precisely what I asked but she would not give any further details.”

“Dammit! I think we should phone Mark.”

“It’s after midnight back home, Sherlock.”

“And? If they are not going to furnish us with the details of their date, then they deserve to be woken.”

Mycroft sighed, and gave Sherlock’s wrist a squeeze. “It can wait until we’re back home. You’ll have more luck getting the gossip from Mark once his tongue has been loosened with a few drinks then when he’s been woken in the middle of the night.”

“I suppose,” Sherlock grumbled in agreement. One of his hands dropped down and dipped under Mycroft’s shirt and he rubbed absently on his tummy. “Are you looking forward to going home?”

Mycroft shrugged. “A little. I miss the family we’ve made there, and I always miss London when I’m away from her. But I also don’t want this to end. To go back to a place where we have to hide our love...it breaks my heart.”

Sherlock pressed a kiss to his neck. “I am dreading that as well. It will be hard to be in public with you and not be able to reach out and take your hand or share a kiss.”

“It’s amazing how quickly that has become second nature to me,” Mycroft agreed. “But it’s not over yet. We still have a couple of days.” He twisted his head so he could give his brother a kiss and then patted his hand. “Now, I just have to cook the pasta and dinner will be ready.”

They ate at the small table, neither speaking much. A slight melancholy had fallen over them but Mycroft was determined to not let it ruin the rest of his plans for the evening. Once they were done and the dishes had been washed, he turned to Sherlock, a gleam in his eyes. His brother looked at him warily, unsure as to what was going on. Mycroft stalked towards him and Sherlock backed up, holding his hands out in front of him. “Mycie?” he asked.

“Yes?” he said mildly.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re a Bond villain and I’m the helpless woman with the innuendo for a name.”

He grinned. “Perhaps because I’m about to punish you?”

“Punish me?” Sherlock asked, a hitch to his voice.

“Oh yes. I need to get my revenge for your game with the tree.”

“You enjoyed that too!” he protested, backing even further away until his legs hit the bed.

“And you’ll enjoy this,” Mycroft countered. “In the end.”

Sherlock gulped loudly, and Mycroft pounced.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not going to have access to internet tomorrow morning so instead of posting the Sunday Double late (and make you all cry) I'm going to post it this arvo before I leave. So there will be another two chapters out in about 6 hours. Woot!


	109. Chapter 109

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And even earlier than promised but fuck it, I wanted to make sure I didn't forget! Happy early Double! (and last double post of this story since it'll be finished by next Friday). See you Monday :)

Mycroft sat in one of the armchairs, a book in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. He took a sip, then set the glass down, using his free hand to turn the page. A small whimper came from the bedroom but he ignored it, continuing to read. When he raised the glass again to his lips he was surprised to find it empty. He made a small sound of discontent and lay his book down and stood up. He moved over to the bench of the kitchenette and picked up the wine bottle that was standing open on it and filled his glass. “Would you like one?” he called to his brother. There was the barest hint of a mumble and he grinned. “No? Very well - more for me.”

He sipped again at the wine, enjoying the way the flavour burst over his tongue and then he sauntered down to the far end of the campervan, standing in the doorway to the bedroom. Sherlock was lying spread eagled on the bed, his mouth gagged and sweat on his brow. The faint hum of the vibrating anal plug filled the air. His eyes narrowed as they fell on Mycroft and a stream of unintelligible mumbles tried to choke past the gag. “Pardon?” Mycroft asked, smirking at his brother. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

His trapped brother glared and Mycroft reached into his pocket and fingered the remote. Without warning he increased the settling to the very highest level and watched as Sherlock bucked and thrust against his bonds, his eyes squeezing shut at the assault on his prostate. It appeared Mycroft had found the secret to stimulating his brother’s hidden little pleasure point and he wished they’d made this discovery a year ago. It was making his little bout of revenge sex much more satisfying, knowing that Sherlock was experiencing prostate stimulation for the very first time. As soon as they got back to London, he would be doing some shopping for some more battery operated toys to do what his fingers and cock could not do alone. 

Taking pity on his brother, he hit another button and the plug settled back down to the lowest setting. Sherlock’s body instantly relaxed, though not entirely. The steady thrum inside of him was enough to keep him on edge but not enough to push him over. He grinned and then crossed to the bed, perching on the side of it and gazing at the lovely sight of the younger man sprawled across it. His long, slender cock was lying across the taut stomach, the head red and weeping, and his balls were drawn up tight against his body. 

He’d surprised Sherlock earlier, and he’d taken great satisfaction in being able to physically best his brother. He rarely utilised skills that he’d learned so long ago but it was good to know he could still call upon them in his time of need - though he doubted his instructor at MI6 would be overjoyed to learn of how those skills were being put to use. He’d managed to subdue and restrain Sherlock after only a brief struggle, and although he’d been successful in pinning him down and getting one hand tied to the bed, he knew it was only by Sherlock’s grace that he’d then successfully undressed his brother and tied his other limbs down. 

They’d both been hard by that point, and he’d stood, gazing down at the very naked detective, squeezing at his cock still confined in his jeans. “So beautiful,” he’d murmured.

“Doesn’t look so bad from here, either,” Sherlock had panted.

He’d pulled out the gag and given his brother a questioning look, and Sherlock had opened his mouth wide, allowing Mycroft to have his way. His pupils were blown wide with desire and it was clear he was enjoying himself. Mycroft had tightened the gag, lubed up the plug and slipped it inside, and had then told his captive to click his fingers if he wanted to be released. 

And then he’d left.

The look of surprise on Sherlock’s face as he’d given a little bow and backed out of the room was priceless, and Mycroft had chuckled to himself as he opened the bottle of wine and fetched his book. He’d then proceeded to play with the settings on the remote every time he finished a chapter, and had continued the torment for almost an hour. He’d listened closely and no matter how much he had heard his brother moan and whimper from behind the gag, he never snapped his fingers.

It was time for stage 2 of Operation Payback and so he began to undress, neatly folding his clothes until he was standing at the foot of the bed, naked before his brother. Sherlock’s eyes had followed every movement and were now lingering on his erection, standing proud and tall. He waited until his brother’s eyes flicked up to meet his own and then reached down and deliberately took himself in hand, tugging on his cock. Mycroft let out a breathy moan, and let his eyes flutter closed, knowing he had Sherlock’s full attention. He then began to put on a show, slowly stroking his cock from root to tip, pinching at his nipples with one hand before letting it drop down to cup at his balls. The next time he looked at Sherlock, his brother was squirming on the bed, arching up against the bonds, trying to reach for his lover. “Patience, dear brother,” Mycroft purred, his hand still busy on his shaft. “If you’re very good for me, I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.”

The younger man whimpered and tried to speak against the gag, sounding very much like he was begging. 

“So eager to touch, aren’t you?” he asked.

Sherlock nodded, his eyes dropping down hungrily to Mycroft’s cock.

“Very well, I suppose just one touch wouldn’t hurt.” He stepped around the bed and then climbed onto the mattress so he was kneeling next to Sherlock’s shoulder. Taking his cock firmly in hand, he guided it down until the head was dragging over the skin of Sherlock’s cheeks. His brother moaned again and his eyes closed, so Mycroft moved the tip up and then trailed it down over Sherlock’s closed eye, leaving a shimmering trail of fluid over his brow and lid. A trickle of saliva was running from his gagged mouth, down his cheek and Mycroft brushed his cock through it, lubricating the tip. 

“I could get myself off right now,” he said in a silky voice. “Jerk off right here, spurt my load all over your face and then leave you there with it dripping down over your cheeks, hard and wanting and unable to do anything about it.”

Sherlock’s cock gave a twitch when he started speaking, but when he got to the last part, a look of panic flashed over his eyes. Mycroft let his hand drop from his shaft and he leaned over and gently caressed his brother’s face. “Don’t worry, love, I wouldn’t do that to you,” he promised. He licked a stripe up his face, cleaning him of his pre-seminal fluid, his tongue lapping gently at his eyelid once it fluttered shut. Once his face was clean (well, cleanish), Mycroft tugged at the straps to the gag. “How about we get this off you?” he asked.

Sherlock took in a deep breath once the ball was removed from his mouth and opened his mouth wide open a few times to stretch it. Once he had worked out the ache from the gag, Mycroft caught his lips in a kiss, keeping it sedate for now. Sherlock tried to deepen it, pushing his tongue forward to tangle with his brother’s, but Mycroft pulled back. “Uh, uh - what did I say about patience, brother mine?”

“ _ Please, _ Mycie,” the younger man pleased. “I need you.”

“I know you do, love, but we’re on my time now. Do you trust me?”

“After tying me up and leaving me with this thing in my arse  _ for an hour _ ?” he said with a glare.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, a silent admonishment that he could have used his safe signal at any time. “I’m serious, Sherlock.”

His brother pouted, suitably chastised. “You know I do,” he mumbled.

“Then trust that I’ll take care of you and I’ll make it good.” 

He waited for his brother to nod, and then he moved to his feet and began to undo the bindings. “I thought you liked me tied up?”

“I do,” Mycroft replied, “but like this you can’t turn over.” He undid the ropes securing his arms as well and then helped Sherlock turn over onto his stomach. He reattached his arms to the top of the bed, but left his legs free, then coaxed his brother up onto his knees. “That’s it - put that lovely arse of yours on display for me.”

Sherlock squirmed a little, the plug still doing it’s job inside of him and sitting at a slightly different angle now. Mycroft ran a soothing hand down Sherlock’s spine, then rubbed at his lower back. He picked up the remote and turned off the plug, and his brother’s whole body slumped. He pressed a kiss to his tail bone, and trailed a hand up and down the outside of one pale thigh. He then reached for the flared base of the plug and began to twist it out of its resting place. Sherlock grunted as the widest part passed through his tight ring of muscle, and then it was free. Mycroft watched in fascination as Sherlock’s entrance fluttered wildly, now bereft of anything to clamp around. He circled the hole with his finger and then pressed the tip inside, feeling the muscle contract around his digit. He pulled his finger out, watching again at the way his entrance winked at him, and leaned forward, blowing warm breath over it. Goosebumps broke out over the pale flesh of Sherlock’s arse, and his whole body shuddered. 

Mycroft suddenly decided he had teased and tortured Sherlock enough. He couldn’t wait any longer to have him. He spread a generous measure of lube on his cock and then pushed himself against his brother. His length sank in with very little resistance, and he could feel Sherlock bearing down, trying to take him in quicker. It wasn’t long before the thatch of curls at the base of his cock was pressing flush against Sherlock’s pale skin and they both took a moment to breathe, to adjust to the feeling of being so intimately connected. 

Then Mycroft took Sherlock’s hips in a bruising grip and began to thrust into him roughly, sliding almost all the way out and then slamming himself home. Sherlock cried out, and pushed back to meet his brother’s hips, a droplet of sweat running down between his sharp shoulder blades. “Yes, Mycie, yes, like that, oh  _ yes _ ” he chanted, his body shuddering and jolting with the power of their fucking. 

Mycroft slid all the way out and then pushed on Sherlock’s lower back until he sank all the way down onto the mattress. He then moved his legs from between Sherlock’s thighs to the outside, crouching over his lover’s plush arse and dipping his cock back inside. It was a much different angle and his brother cried out, his sensitive prostate seeming to come alive now that it had been teased by the plug. Mycroft grabbed two handfuls of the cheeks that were bouncing enticingly before him and he rode his brother hard, thrust again and again until he felt that spring that had coiled deep inside him unfurl and he was spilling himself deep inside of Sherlock. 

With shaking hands, he reached up and pulled free the ties that bound Sherlock’s wrists above his head and then he sat back on his hunches, pulling Sherlock up with him until he was resting against his chest. Mycroft then reached down and took hold of his brother’s aching erection, his hand still slick from the lube he’d used on himself. His hand flew over the shaft, jerking his brother the way he knew he liked. It didn’t even take half a minute before Sherlock was crying out, hot stripes of ejaculate painting his stomach and Mycroft’s fist. 

They slumped together, both breathing hard and their blood flooded with reward chemicals. Mycroft pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s throat and squeezed him tightly, feeling completely mollified after the afternoon’s events. He knew that this was going to be the thing he missed most about their holiday - having unfettered access to each other to slake their lust, and swore a silent oath to make sure they spent as much free time together as they could only they were thrown back into the reality of the world. 

With one last kiss, he stood up, and went to fetch a flannel to clean themselves off, trying to push the thoughts of their return to the real world as far as possible from his mind. They had little time left and he intended to make the most of it.

  
  



	110. Chapter 110

There wasn’t much to do before they left the campground other than tidy away a few things they’d set up outside, unhook the power, and make sure their water tank was filled. Neither brother seemed inclined to hurry through these tasks, both finding themselves dawdling, hesitant to bring their trip to a close. They may still have had another night on the road and then a night in Vancouver before their flight, but once they left the Icefields behind them, it would be undeniable that their vacation was coming to an end. A melancholy had settled over both of them, and they were both very quiet. Soon however, there tasks were complete and there was nothing left to do. Mycroft took inside the last camp chair and Sherlock closed the outside storage hatch.

“Hi, Sherlock! Hi, Mycie!” a voice called out to them. 

Sherlock turned and saw Penny and her brothers hurrying along the path. “Hello,” he replied, unable to help the smile that tugged at his lips. 

“We weren’t sure if we’d catch you before you left,” she said, skipping the last few steps.

“We promised we wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye,” Mycroft told her, coming down the steps of the camper.

“Yeah, but lots of grownups don’t keep promises,” Callum said.

“Well, we’re not like other grownups,” Sherlock replied.

Penny nodded with enthusiasm. “I know! You guys are so cool!”

Mycroft laughed. “I don’t think I’ve ever been called ‘cool’ before.”

“So says the Iceman,” Sherlock teased.

“It was really great to meet you,” Matt told them. “We hope you have a good trip home.”

“And you all make sure to enjoy the rest of your holiday,” the eldest Holmes told them. 

“Bye!” Callum said, then began to follow Matt back to their site. Penny gave a sad wave, and turned to leave as well, but changed her mind. She ran back to the brothers and flung her arms around Sherlock’s legs. “Thanks for being so nice,” she whispered, then let go of Sherlock and gave Mycroft’s legs a hug as well. “And thanks for playing in the snow with us.”

Mycroft ruffled her hair. “It was our pleasure, Penny.”

She gave them a smile, sniffling back a sob, and then turned and ran after her own brothers. They watched her go and Mycroft wrapped an arm around Sherlock and pulled him close. “I’m turning ridiculously sentimental in my dotage since I know that I’m going to miss those children.”

Sherlock laughed. “I promise not to tell anyone your secret and ruin your reputation.”

“I appreciate that.”

The detective sighed. “I suppose we should get on the road.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

They both remained standing outside, neither making a move for the van.

“I don’t want to go,” he whispered.

“Neither do I,” Mycroft replied in a sad voice.

“It’s not going to be the same when we get home.”

“No, no it’s not.” Mycroft held him tightly. “But we managed before, Sherlock - we’ll manage again.”

“I don’t want to  _ manage _ ,” he cried. “I want to have what we’ve had here - to be able to be open with our relationship, to not have to hide!”

“But we haven’t been able to be open, have we? Not truly. We’ve had to pretend, to hide our real relationship.”

“It’s still better than how we have to act back in London.”

“I know, Sherlock, and I feel the same way. It’s the reality we are faced with though so we have to make the most of it.”

He couldn’t answer, too busy fighting back the tears that were threatening to flow over his cheeks. Mycroft understood, and just hugged him even closer. They remained there for several long moments, until they reached a wordless agreement and broke apart, moving to the van. Mycroft took the driver’s seat, and Sherlock was grateful. He was too sombre to be able to concentrate on the road right now. As Mycroft maneuvered them from the grounds, he leaned his face against the cold glass of the window, watching as the scenery flashed by. All the memories of their holiday together - the good, the bad, the wonderful, and the terrible - he gathered together and locked them securely away in a large room in his mind palace, close to the entrance so he could access them in a hurry. They were memories he would want to keep close at hand and perfectly preserved to lend him strength during the hard times to come, when the challenges of going back to their regular lives became too great. 

A warm hand fell onto his thigh and he glanced over at Mycroft and covered the hand with his own. No matter how hard it got, he knew he would always have the love of his life by his side, and that’s what counted at the end of the day. He gave the long, slender fingers a squeeze and when Mycroft looked over and met his eyes, he smiled at his brother. The smile he got in return warmed his heart and the depression covering him like a thick blanket of snow lifted, just a little.

~~~~~~~

Was there anywhere more boring than an airport? They’d checked out of the hotel in Vancouver and dropped the van back, and then had the option of taking a courtesy bus to the airport or catching a cab. They’d opted for the bus even though it would get them there several hours earlier than they needed to be, but neither had the energy to traipse around the city with their luggage to kill time. They’d spent an hour or two wandering around the shops, buying gifts from duty free and picking up the odd souvenir for themselves, and then ended up in the food court, claiming a table with soft bench seats. They had access to the First Class Lounge but the chances of Mycroft seeing someone who could recognise him were too great and they both wanted a little more time to be close before their flight. So they settled in for the long haul and Sherlock found himself sitting at the table, sipping a coffee, with Mycroft sprawled out on the seat with his head in his younger brother’s lap. He dropped a hand down and absently carded it through the thinning locks, thumbing through his emails with his free hand.

They passed the next several hours by taking turns napping, drinking too much coffee to make napping really viable, and fidgeting as they tried to keep themselves entertained. Mycroft gave up on his self imposed ban on work emails and began to sort through the hundreds and hundreds of messages he had, prioritising them in order of importance and then beginning from the top and going through the most urgent ones. Sherlock checked his blog and found a few new comments that weren’t totally imbecilic and were deemed worthy of a response, and then browsed a few science blogs that he kept an eye on.

By the time their flight was called, he was antsy and irritated, the boredom beginning to be too much. Mycroft rubbed at the small of his back as they lined up to board, trying to calm him down. “I don’t know how I’ll handle eleven hours on a plane again, Mycie,” he said, chewing on his thumbnail.

“I’ll keep you occupied,” his brother promised. “We’ll play deductions, and I picked up several science journals from the newsagency so we can debate the articles in them. I’ll make sure the time passes quickly.”

Sherlock slumped against him. “Thank you,” he whispered, grateful Mycroft wasn’t frustrated with him. He had been fine on the flight over, but the excitement of kicking off their holiday had been enough to keep his boredom at bay; the trip home was an entirely different beast.

His brother smiled and kissed his cheek. “Anything for you, my love.” He then grinned, and it was absolutely salacious. “Besides, we know now that we both fit in the loo.”

Sherlock bellowed out a laugh, and then caught his brother’s lips for a fierce kiss. Yes, another dalliance at forty thousand feet would certainly keep the boredom at bay.

  
  
  



	111. Chapter 111

The brothers were exhausted by the time they arrived back in London but Mycroft’s phone chirped once he turned it back on with a message from Anthea, advising she was there with a car. They both let out a sigh of relief, neither wanting to fight for a cab to take them home. Mycroft led them to the special line in customs for those with Diplomatic status and they were whisked through with ease. He smirked when Sherlock whispered, “I’ll never complain about you being the British Government again.”

They strolled through to the arrivals gate and Mycroft felt his jaw drop open in surprise - Anthea was waiting for them but she had also brought Mark along. The young agent beamed at them and rushed forward and caught Sherlock in a huge bear hug. “Welcome back,” he said with a grin, then let go of Sherlock and pulled Mycroft into a hug as well.

“Hello,” he replied, a little breathless from having his ribs squeezed. “I wasn’t expecting you here.”

“Are we in trouble with the boss?” Mark asked with a wink.

Mycroft chuckled. “It’s a nice surprise, don’t worry.” Anthea had been giving them some space and yelped when Mycroft leaned forward and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “It’s lovely to see you again, my dear.”

She blushed a deep red and gave a shy smile, something the diplomat had never seen before. “It’s good to have you back, sir. I’ve got everything sorted at the office so you won’t be needed for the next two days - it should give you some time to get over any jet lag.”

“I really think I need to give you a raise,” he said, completely serious. “I started looking over my emails before we left so the extra days will give me time to think about a few of them that need very delicate replies.”

“The driver is waiting right out the front for us,” Mark told them. “When we left he was fending off security with nothing but his ID, government plates, and a scowl. Perhaps we should see if he’s still there or if he’s been taken into custody?”

“I do hope he convinced them of his official business,” Mycroft muttered. “Two jailbreaks this week is really too much for me.”

Sherlock blushed and Mark bellowed out a laugh. “Still can’t believe you did that, Sher!”

The detective glared at Anthea. “You  _ told him _ ?”

She gave him her most innocent look. “You expect me to keep secrets from him?”

“ _ You’ve been together for a week! _ It’s not like you’re an old married couple.”

She shrugged. “Maybe I value honesty.”

“Then you’re in the wrong job,” Sherlock teased.

“He would have found out soon enough.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

“You’ve drawn a line in the sand!” he declared in a dramatic voice.

Mark had wrestled Mycroft’s suitcase from him and was pulling it behind them, watching Anthea and Sherlock argue - or to be more accurate, watching Sherlock argue  _ at _ Anthea and the brunette deflect and dodge his accusations. “Is this what it feels like when Sher and I go at it?” he asked.

“If you mean highly amusing, then yes, yes it does,” he replied, hiding a grin as the bickering about loyalty grew between his brother and PA.

“God, I’ve missed you guys so much,” Mark said, and slung an arm around Mycroft in a one armed hug.

Warmth bloomed in his chest and the older man gave him a squeeze back. “We missed our family too.”

The agent’s eyes widened at the term, and he broke out into a dazzling smile. “Good to know. You had a good time, though? You know, apart from the crazed neo Nazi terrorists, and the having to get Sher off of a murder charge.”

“Oh, Mark, I can’t even describe how wonderful it was,” he said, completely honest. What words could he use that would adequately capture the bliss he and Sherlock had experienced?

“You don’t have to,” his friend said with a soft smile. “Your expression says it all. You two deserved to have a nice break and I’m glad that even after everything that went wrong, you could still enjoy it.”

“And it appears you’ve been enjoying the last week as well,” he said with a sly nod of the head towards Anthea.

He’d expected a grin or a wink, but instead, Mark blushed. “Very much,” he said, a little shyly.

“I know it’s early days yet, but I can already see you two fitting well together. I’m very happy for the both of you.”

“Cheers for that, Mycroft. It means a lot to me that we have your support.”

He rolled his eyes. “What am I? Her father?”

Mark laughed and gestured to where their partners were still bickering, Anthea having dropped her usual mask of professional indifference and giving back to Sherlock as good as he gave. 

“Oh, Lords,” Mycroft muttered, and moved forward to break up the argument before innocent bystanders could be caught in the crossfire.

“Mycie, I demand you fire this traitor immediately and replace her with someone who won’t spill state secrets in her post-coital haze.”

“Your shenanigans aren’t exactly ‘state secrets’, Sherlock,” Anthea shot back at him. 

“Your position as tea lady doesn’t exactly lend itself to you being the one to make that distinction.”

“Private investigators are of no interest to the government.”

“Children, please!” Mycroft said, raising his voice to be heard over the din.

They turned to him with matching innocent expressions and Mycroft was suddenly glad they’d never really teamed up against him before. “Yes, Mycie?”

“Sir?”

He groaned. “I hate you both.”

They grinned but called a truce on their faux argument, and soon the group was reaching the front of the airport to find the driver had stoically kept his park. Several burly security guards were stationed nearby, and one of them stalked towards them as they approached the vehicle. “I need to see some identification,” he barked at them.

Mycroft almost laughed as the guard was presented with his own diplomatic ID, an MI6 tag from Anthea, MI5 tag from Mark, and Sherlock flashed the ID card the Met had made for him when he was officially helping them on a case. The man’s eyes had widened and he immediately backed down. “Oh, well, thank you for that. Erm...have a nice day.”

“Thank you,” Anthea told him imperiously. “That will be all.”

The man skulked back to his colleagues, and Mycroft’s driver hurried forward to take their luggage. They piled into the back of the town car and Mycroft felt himself slump down on the plush seat. “As lovely a time as we had, it  _ is _ good to be home.”

Anthea hit the button to raise the solid partition between the back and the driver and smirked as Sherlock immediately slid over on the seat and rested a hand on his brother’s thigh. “Are we taking you back to your house, sir?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No, to Baker Street. Half our luggage is gifts for Rosie so no point in giving it a tour of London before we drop it off to her.” He left unspoken their desire to see the little girl but everyone understood how much they had missed her.

“And where are our gifts?” Mark asked cheekily from his place behind the driver. He had reached out and taken Anthea’s hand and after a slight blush, she had tangled their fingers together.

“At the bottom of the suitcase, probably broken into a thousand pieces,” Sherlock told him.

“Well, make sure you give me a tube of superglue with my puzzle,” he replied.

Anthea picked up the phone and informed the driver of their destination and soon they were driving towards London. Mycroft closed his eyes and let the conversation wash over him, concentrating on the connection between himself and Sherlock. It  _ was _ good to be home, but he knew he would have to cherish the stolen moments now, unable to show his affection in public. He lay his hand over his brother’s and vowed to steal many moments so this feeling would never leave.

  
  



	112. Chapter 112

Sherlock hurried up the stairs to the flat as fast as his luggage would allow, and he burst through the front door with a wide smile on his face. He faltered as he took in the silent sitting room and the unmistakable feeling of an empty house. He left his suitcase where it was and looked into the kitchen, then pushed past Mycroft - who was just coming into the flat - to check the bathroom. His brother raised a brow in a silent question and Sherlock frowned, then loped up the next flight of stairs to check John and Rosie’s rooms. Empty.

John had known they were coming home today and yet they weren’t here to see him. 

He blinked back sudden tears, and the feeling of nausea that had overwhelmed him and made his way slowly back down the stairs. Mycroft was waiting for him, and his face mirrored Sherlock’s own upset. “Are they not here?” he asked, shocked.

All the detective could do was shake his head. He went over to the couch and slumped down onto it. “I didn't expect a welcome home parade, but I thought they’d at least be here to greet us.”

Mycroft wheeled their suitcases out of the doorway and then crossed to the couch, sitting down next to it and pulling Sherlock to him. “Oh, love, I’m so sorry.” There was little else to say, and they just remained there for several minutes. Eventually, Mycroft pressed a kiss to his temple and said softly, “I’ll make some tea.” He stood and turned to the kitchen, then paused. He stepped closer to the the window and peered out of it. “Sherlock, come here,” he said.

The younger man hefted himself back to his feet and went to see what his brother was looking at. His eyes fell on the street below and he saw a short distance up the road three figures walking up the footpath. John and Jonathon were walking with Rosie clasping a hand each and every few steps they would swing her out in front of them. Even through the glass they could hear her little whoops of joy and her laughter. John held two shopping bags in his free hand and Jonathon another. They paused as they reached 221 and John’s eyes widened as he looked at the door. “The knocker…” they heard him say. Then he took a step backwards and looked up to the window, seeing the brothers standing there. “Fuck!” he cursed, then they heard the key in the lock. 

They waited silently, listening to the hurried steps on the stairs and then the door burst open and John was stepping inside, a look of utter distress on his face. Before he could say anything, there was a piercing squeal and Rosie was charging past her father’s legs and lunging at the brothers. “Sher Sher! Mycie!” she screamed, and they both knelt down so they could pull her into a joint hug.

“Hello, my little scientist,” Sherlock greeted her, pressing a kiss to her curls. 

“Missed you, missed you so much,” she said, starting to cry.

“Oh, Rosamund, we missed you too,” Mycie told her. “We’re home now.”

As they continued to hold her, Jonathon came into the flat and gave them a little wave, then offered to take the bags from John’s hands. The blonde nodded and handed them over and then turned back to look at the arrivals, shaking his head. “I wasn’t expecting you for another half an hour at least,” he said. “It takes  _ ages _ to get through customs at Heathrow.”

“Diplomatic status, remember,” Sherlock told him, tilting his head to Mycroft.

“Oh, bugger!” John huffed out a sigh. “We went and got some things so we could have a little party to celebrate you being back. I’m so sorry we weren’t here.”

Sherlock untangled himself from Rosie’s arms and left her with Mycroft, then stood and gave John a hug. The doctor seemed surprised for a minute, but then eagerly returned it. “It’s okay. No harm done,” he assured his flatmate. “We’ve only been here five minutes.”

Jonathon came out of the kitchen. “So, would anyone like a glass of wine to celebrate? Or would you prefer tea?”

“Wine would be lovely, thank you, Jonathon,” Mycroft told him with a smile.

The professor blushed a little and nodded, and Sherlock avoided rolling his eyes. Strangely enough, there wasn’t the old pang of jealousy at seeing the obvious signs of attraction the man still held for his brother. Their time away together had done wonders at reassuring him that Mycroft was never going to leave him. “Sherlock?” he asked, a shy smile on his lips.

He nodded at his doppleganger. “Please.”

“Right, well, let me start unpacking the shopping,” John told them. “Are you hungry?”

“We could eat,” Sherlock told him after exchanging a look with Mycroft. “Will you be fine if we have a shower first?”

“Yeah, ‘course. “I’ve got some mini pasties to go in the oven to heat anyway so they’ll take some time.”

He’d wanted Mycroft to shower with him but when he suggested it, Rosie just clung to the older man’s neck and refused to let go.

“Rosie, why don’t you stay here with me for a bit,” Jonathon asked, coming back into the room with two glasses of wine. “Let Mycie and Sherlock get cleaned up after their flight.”

“No!” she cried and buried her face in Mycroft’s shirt. “No, don’t leave me.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Mycroft assured her. “I’ll have one after you,” he directed to Sherlock, settling himself down on the couch with his lap full of toddler.

Sherlock nodded, then took a sip of his wine before heading to the bathroom. He stripped off, and turned on the taps, waiting for the water to heat to the perfect temperature. It didn't take long as he felt a sudden rush of affection for the familiar surroundings. Their holiday had been more wonderful than he could have ever imagined, but it was still nice to be home. 

He washed himself down, wincing as the flannel scraped over his collarbones. During their tryst on the plane, Mycroft had refreshed the marks he’d made during their many romps at the campground in Jasper. The bruises were still a dark red and a little sensitive but Sherlock found he didn't mind at all, loving the reminder of how he had got them. He wondered if he could convince his brother to continue marking him there, renewing the lovebites so he had a continuing souvenir of their holiday?

Once he had dried off, he wrapped the towel around his waist for the dash to his bedroom, having not brought a change of clothes into the bathroom with him. He opened the door and as he stepped out, Jonathon was moving from the sitting room into the kitchen. His eyes widened as he saw the pale skin peppered with bites and Sherlock couldn’t help but smirk at the man. He knew it wasn’t nice, and he knew that the professor had been innocently caught up in a convoluted situation, but he still felt a rush of victory go through him at knowing he had seen even more proof of Mycroft’s love for his brother. Jonathon blushed a deep shade of red and hurried through to the kitchen and Sherlock sashayed to his room to get changed.

Once he returned to the sitting room, Mycie handed over Rosie and took his own turn in the shower. Sherlock had emptied out all of the gifts they had brought back and had left them on the bed for his brother to bring in with him once he was done. He picked up his wine and had a drink whilst Rosie plastered herself to his chest. John laid out some cheese and crackers and then took a seat in Sherlock’s armchair, while Jonathon took John’s. “So, just how did you get yourself arrested for murder?” his flatmate asked, a note of exasperation in his voice.

Sherlock laughed and regaled them with the story, and by the time he had finished, Mycroft was back, his arms laden with gifts. 

“What’s that?” Rosie asked, peering at him with excitement.

“We have presents for you all,” Mycroft told her, sitting down next to them on the couch.

“Yay!” she cried, bouncing on Sherlock’s lap.

He winced, and shuffled her about a little so his manhood was better protected from her enthusiasm. 

Mycroft gestured at the pile of gifts. “Do you want the honours?” he asked.

The younger man gave his head a shake. “No, I’m happy for you to do it.”

His brother grinned and then started handing out the items. They had gotten Rosie a moose hand puppet, two snow globes, a plush black bear, a plush wolf, and several t shirts. For John they had gotten a hockey jersey, a bottle of good whiskey, and one of those singing salmons, which set him and his daughter into fits of giggles when he pressed the button. 

Jonathon looked shocked when Mycroft passed him a few items - a small jug of maple syrup, a bag of Tim Horton’s coffee beans, and a totem pole keyring. “Oh! I wasn’t expecting anything!” he stammered, blushing again.

“Well, you  _ are _ part of the family now,” Mycroft told him, smiling between him and John. “We weren’t going to come back empty handed.”

John beamed at the brothers and reached over to take Jonathon’s hands in his. “Thank you, Mycroft - that means so much to both of us,” the doctor told him. The oven timer went off and John stood up. “Looks like the pasties are ready. Who needs another drink?”

Sherlock drained his glass and Mycroft took it from him, standing to follow John into the kitchen for refills, and Jonathon slipped on the hand puppet and started tickling Rosie’s nose with it, the toddler giggling and squirming in Sherlock’s lap. He felt contentment settle over him, and the last traces of sadness for the end of their holiday left him and he was just glad to be home with his family.

 


	113. Chapter 113

It was just past 7pm when both brothers began to fade rapidly. Sherlock yawned constantly and Mycroft felt his eyes drooping. John watched them in amusement and finally pointed towards his flatmate’s bedroom. “Right, you two - bed!”

“It’s too early for that,” Sherlock mumbled cut eyes towards Rosie, who was nestled in Mycroft’s lap. She wouldn’t be put to bed for another half an hour and it was clear he wanted to spend as much time with her as possible.

John picked up on this too and gave the detective an affectionate smile. “I need to give Rosie a bath so you won’t miss anything. Now, will you both go and get some sleep before Mycroft passes out and drops my daughter on her head.”

They didn't take much more convincing, both of them utterly exhausted. Mycroft gave the child one last cuddle and then passed her to Sherlock so he could give her a kiss goodnight. He handed her over to John and then with after murmured ‘goodnights’ to John and Jonathon, the brothers headed into Sherlock’s bedroom.

“Is it weird for you?” Sherlock asked him, shucking his trousers and climbing into bed.

“Is what weird?” Mycroft asked, carefully folding his clothes before he climbed into bed, slipping in between the cool sheets and shuffling over so he could gather Sherlock into his arms.

“Having Jonathon here as well,” he replied, snuggling in close and laying his head on Mycroft’s shoulder.

“Why would it be weird for me?” he asked, so sleepy that his voice was robbed of his surprise at the question.

He felt his brother shrug. “Dunno - just the whole ex thing.”

“Sherlock, if it was weird for anyone, it would be you, but you seem to be okay with it. Am I correct?”

“It’s good to see John happy,” he said by way of reply.

“That’s what matters then. Now shush and go to sleep.”

He felt Sherlock’s lips brushing the skin of his shoulder and then exhaustion overcame Mycroft and in between one thought and another, he dropped off to sleep.

~~~~~~~

“Jet lag is officially the worst thing in the world,” Sherlock groaned.

Mycroft grunted in agreement, and tugged his brother over until he was lying draped over him. “I didn’t think you’d be bothered by being awake at 3am.”

He felt the younger man shrug. “Other than being exhausted from the flight, I’ve gotten rather used to having a full night’s sleep now.”

Mycroft pressed his lips to Sherlock’s curls. “Do you have plans for today?”

“No, not really. I wasn’t planning on doing much. Why? What do you suggest?”

“Anthea had cleared my schedule for the next two days and as much as going somewhere is the last thing I want to do, I thought perhaps we could have Father meet us at the airfield and we could all go and visit Eurus. I’m not sure when I’ll get the chance to go again once I’m playing catch up with my In Tray.”

Sherlock hummed his agreement. “I know what you mean - I feel too lazy to go anywhere right now but it would be good to see them with you.”

“I’ll start making phone calls as soon as I think Father will be up.”

“Sounds good.” Sherlock snuggled in closer to him and nuzzled at the soft skin just below his shoulder. “What are we going to do for the next several hours then? If we get up now, we’ll probably wake Rosie.”

“Oh, I have an idea or two for how to keep us occupied,” he said in a sultry voice. He trailed one hand down Sherlock’s spine until it found a lush handful to squeeze and the other curled at the nape of his brother’s neck, guiding his head up a little so their mouths could meet in a kiss. He felt Sherlock’s erection growing against his hip and his own cock quickly thickened in response. “Can you be quiet?” he asked, kissing his way down the younger man’s jaw and nipping at his earlobe.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied in a faltering voice as Mycroft let a finger trail down over his crack and brush over his sensitive hole.

“I don’t think I can be,” he whispered hotly. “I think you need to fill my mouth with something to ensure my silence.”

The hard length pressing against his side twitched at his words and Mycroft could feel the pre-ejaculate pulsing from the tip. He felt warmth bloom in his chest at the knowledge that even now, after all this time, he could still make Sherlock drip for him. His brother scrambled to his knees and then pulled at Mycroft, urging him to lie on his back, his head hanging over the side of the bed. Then Sherlock climbed off the bed and stood over him, a hand brushing gently over his face. “You are so beautiful like this, Mycie.”  Then he grasped his cock and guided it to Mycroft’s mouth, and the diplomat licked his lips to ensure they were slick. The smooth, hot head slid between his lips and he pressed his tongue up, to drag over the underside as it slipped inside. Sherlock moved his hips slowly, pushing in just a short way, then pulling back out. Mycroft tilted his head back even more, opening his throat and reached around to take hold of Sherlock’s arse, urging him back inside. Despite his hints, Sherlock refused to go in much deeper, slowly sliding his cock into Mycroft’s mouth, and then just as torturously slowly, pulling it back out. He slid back in, going just a fraction deeper, then slipped back out. In and out, slowly, slowly, ignoring the firm grip Mycroft had on his buttocks, pushing him to go deeper, faster.

Mycroft moaned around him, squirming on the bed, wanting to scream at Sherlock to take him, to fuck his mouth, but he knew if he did that, his brother would only do the opposite. He forced himself to be patient, concentrating on the feeling of the heavy weight on his tongue. In and out, slowly going deeper and deeper, until finally the head of his cock was pushing right into Mycroft’s throat. He breathed steadily through his nose, feeling the neatly trimmed curls tickle his face, enjoying the slight burn in his jaw. Sherlock paused there for a long moment, filling his mouth and throat. He didn’t thrust or jerk, not wanting to trigger Mycroft’s gag reflex, but just enjoyed the tight heat around his cock.

Then he was pulling back out, and Mycroft made sure to press his tongue up again, dagging it out the sensitive flesh. He heard Sherlock moan softly and a dribble of salty fluid trickle over his tastebuds. Mycroft tightened his lips as the head passed through them, and darted his tongue out to lap at the slit, cleaning it of the pre-come and then pressing the tip hard against it, trying to draw out more of the fluid. He was rewarded with more and he greedily licked it clean, and then Sherlock was moving his hips forward, pressing his cock back inside.

Mycroft’s own cock was twitching, eager for attention. When Sherlock touched his shoulders and silently instructed him to slide down the mattress so his head was no longer hanging over the side, he went willingly. Then his brother was climbing up, kneeling over Mycroft’s face and leaning over, pushing his cock back into the eager mouth below while he stretched out and caught Mycroft’s prick in his own mouth. The diplomat moaned again, louder this time as he felt himself engulfed in that wet warmth. Sherlock thrust his hips a little, pushing his cock deeper, silencing him so as not to wake the flat’s other occupants.

The angles in this position were not optimal, and Mycroft had to keep a hand wrapped around the base of Sherlock’s prick to keep it from springing from his mouth, but it was still one of the most intimate positions they indulged in. They knew each other’s bodies, could read the minute signals that told when their lover was close, and so when Sherlock’s legs began to tremble and his breath hitched, Mycroft took him even deeper, drawing his orgasm from him. The detective’s entire body shuddered as he came, and his mouth moved erratically over Mycroft’s own cock, taking him right to the edge. Mycroft thrust his pelvis up, chasing his own release and then he too was coming, emptying himself across his baby brother’s tongue.

Sherlock rolled to one side, flopping onto the bed, panting hard. Mycroft gave his calf an affectionate squeeze. “You’re so fucking good at that, Mycie,” he mumbled, sated and relaxed.

“Mmm, as are you, brother mine.”

Sherlock yawned and suddenly Mycroft felt that he could perhaps get some more sleep. He maneuvered himself on the bed until he was back up the right way, his head on a pillow. He held open his arms in an invitation and Sherlock fell into his embrace. He kissed his forehead and held him close. “Get a few more hours sleep, my love,” he instructed. Sherlock mumbled a wordless assent and not long afterwards, his steady breathing told Mycroft he had fallen back into slumber.


	114. Chapter 114

Father had embraced both of them warmly when they had met him at the airfield, and Sherlock was overwhelmed with how grateful he felt towards their sire. If pressed, he would have had to admit that he had been worried that the time they had spent away would be time their father would spend rethinking his acceptance of their relationship. Instead, he’d just been glad to see them and had hugged both of them hard. “Thank you for keeping the other safe in Vancouver,” he’d whispered, unable to let them go. They had glossed over just how much danger they had been in during the attack, but he wasn’t daft and knew they were downplaying it to spare him the worry. They had spent the helicopter ride with Father asking a thousand questions about their holiday, which they had happily answered.

Dawson met all three of them when they arrived and ushered them into his office. Mycroft handed over a printed photograph in a plastic sleeve when they sat and the Governor inspected it carefully. It was a photo of Sherlock and Mycroft at Lake Louise that had been enlarged to eight by ten size. They hadn’t bothered framing it, having had to jump through enough hoops for the simple, shatterproof frame the family portrait was in. Dawson nodded with a smile and handed it back over. “That’s perfectly fine to give to her,” he told them. “The weather has been getting progressively worse and so the outside exercise yard is now closed until spring. There is a recreation room that we allow prisoners to use as a reward for good behaviour. With the amazing progress Eurus has made, I am more than happy for you to all spend time with her in there.”

The brothers were stunned by this gesture but Mycroft pulled himself together enough to nod his head in gratitude. “That’s very kind of you.”

Dawson waved it off. “Nonsense - exceptional behaviour deserves a reward. What would be the point of a punishment if there was nothing to strive towards? To make rehabilitating worth it?”

Sherlock wondered how different things would be if Dawson had gotten the job instead of his predecessor? Would Eurus’ plan have failed? Or would she have  manipulated him just as easily? The way Dawson ran his ship had a great influence over their sister’s recovery, but without the catalyst of the events here at Sherrinford a year ago, would she ever have been willing to change? He shook his head, knowing he was merely borrowing trouble fretting about events that had never come to pass.

Mycroft discussed a few more things with Dawson and then they stood and the Governor wished them a pleasant visit. They took the familiar path through the facility until they were in the elevator, heading down to the deepest levels to their sister’s cell. Eurus was waiting for them when the door opened, and hurried across to the glass when she caught sight of them. “Brothers,” she said, her voice steady but the haste of her movements betraying her excitement at seeing them.

Sherlock crossed to the glass and held a hand up to hers. “Hello, sis,” he greeted her with a warm smile. “Miss us?”

She bit her lip and nodded, almost shyly. “Yes,” she whispered.

“We missed you, too,” Mycroft said as he came to stand next to Sherlock, keeping a respectful distance due to the cameras.

“I’ll never tire of seeing all three of you together,” Father told them, his face a picture of happiness with just a tinge of sadness. Sherlock wished fervently that it didn’t have to be this way; that they could all meet up in the family home, not in a maximum security prison. He knew though that that would never happen - Eurus would be locked away for life and they just had to make the most of the times they did have together.

“We couldn’t really bring you a souvenir,” Mycroft was telling her, “but we wanted to bring you something. I hope this is okay.” He placed the photo in the hatch and waited patiently as his sister retrieved it. She smiled as she took in the photo, a knowing smirk on her face at the pose. They had made sure to have one photo taken with their arms slung around each other’s shoulders, the epitome of brotherly affection, which they had printed out. The one they had sent to father, which he would have shown Eurus on his phone, had been taken with their arms wrapped around each other’s waists in a much more intimate pose.

She turned and went to the wall where she had several of her drawings displayed. She pulled one down and then removed the Blu Tack from the back, pressing it to the photo instead and then sticking it to the wall. “Thank you,” she said, turning around to smile at them. “It looks like it was a very beautiful place. Did you get to do much exploring? Or did you find yourselves occupied with more indoor pursuits?” she asked innocently.

Sherlock made a concerted effort not to snort, and then replied as airily as he could, “We went canoeing, in fact. It was very enjoyable.”

“Right up until the point that Sherlock got clumsy and sent us tumbling into the lake,” Mycroft added dryly. “The _ice cold_ lake.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose!” he protested.

“Nevertheless, you’re the one who fell and took me overboard with you.”

Father shook his head. “Honestly, can you boys never go anywhere without putting your lives at risk?” He sounded amused and exasperated, and not overly upset so neither brother felt too bad for worrying him.

“But what would be the fun in that?” Eurus asked, winking at her brothers.

“Danger does add a certain zest to activities,” Sherlock agreed. “Hence why we flew over an active volcano.”

“Oh, you must tell me all about that!” their sister said, her eyes shining with enthusiasm.

“We will,” Mycroft assured her. “How about we move to the rec room though? Dawson has said we can use that whilst the outside area is closed over winter.”

It didn’t take long for the guards to be called and they were soon going through the routine of shackling Eurus. One of them was Billy, and he kept up a cheerful conversation with his ward as he did what needed to be done, making sure it was completed in the most respectful way possible. Sherlock couldn’t help but smile, knowing that being treated like a person was all part of the reason for his sister’s improvement. The satisfied look on Mycroft’s face told him his brother was thinking the same. The man was still on guard, the safety of the facility his top priority, but he clearly knew that that didn’t have to mean he had to treat Eurus like something less than human.

They were soon being led down unfamiliar corridors until they were shown into the rec room. It didn’t boast much - a few armchairs, a small bookcase with dog eared novels sitting on it, and an old ping pong table (with the bats attached via cords), but it allowed them to at least be in the same room as their sister. As soon as the guards left, Sherlock was pulling her into a hug, and Father and Mycroft followed afterwards. He noted the numerous cameras and the mirror on one wall that was clearly an observation window, and knew they would not get away with any secret conversations here. Eurus and Father were both good at reading between the lines though and as they regaled them with stories of their adventures, both could understand how much spending quality time alone had meant to the brothers.

They spent several hours in the rec room until Billy came and told them regretfully that their time was up. He saw the downcast eyes of all of them and then threw a glance at the cameras. “Ten more minutes, okay?” he said, then hurried from the room.

Knowing their visit was at an end, they took turns embracing Eurus, Sherlock stealing a second hug at the very end. “I’ll come back in a few days,” he promised. “We haven’t played together in ages and I’m probably rusty now.”

She gave him a smile, and her hooded eyes were fond. “It’s a good thing I managed to teach you how to play your violin once already - it should take much for me to get you back up to scratch.”

He grinned and then Billy was back and they accompanied Eurus back to her cell, and then said their final farewells. It was getting late and jet lag was still affecting Sherlock and Mycroft, both almost dozing on the helicopter ride back to the mainland. When they arrived at the airfield, Father made them promise to visit soon, but Mycroft countered with him coming to stay in London for a few days. “I won’t be able to get time off work again in a hurry but if you stayed with me, we could spend time together after I finish for the day.”

Half expecting a jealous surge over his brother offering their time together to someone else, Sherlock was a little surprised when it didn’t happen. He put it down to the fact that their father knew and they wouldn’t have to hide, and then suddenly found himself wanting him to come sooner rather than later. By the time they were watching their father drive off, he had already arranged for him to come the following weekend. Mycroft was watching him with an amused smirk on his face and Sherlock glared at him. “Shut up!” he said, stalking over to the car.

Mycroft chuckled as he climbed into the back, raising the solid partition as he did so. “I didn’t say a thing, brother mine.”

“Yet I could hear you thinking from over here.”

“I shall ensure I think more quietly in future.”

“Yes, do that.”

The diplomat grinned and then reached out and linked their fingers together, not saying another word. Sherlock smiled a little sheepishly and then shuffled over and rested his head on his brother’s shoulder. “I love you,” Mycroft whispered quietly, rubbing his thumb over the back of Sherlock’s fingers.

“Love you too,” he whispered back. He settled himself in more comfortably, happy to snuggle the entire drive back to London.

 

 

CH


	115. Chapter 115

Mycroft had gone back to work and Sherlock tried not to fall into a deep depression. He couldn’t help but feel the dull throb of boredom settle around him as the reality of regular life set in. He posted on his blog advising that he was back in town and ready to take cases, but it seemed no one was in need of a consulting detective at this very moment. Over the next few days he had tea with Mrs Hudson, and babysat Rosie while John was at work, and went to visit his sister again. He was beginning to get the itchy, crawly feeling under his skin when the boredom got too much when he received a call from Lestrade, asking him to come to NSY. He was looking after Roise again that day but Mrs Hudson was more than happy to take her so he could hurry to the Yard.

“Hey, Sherlock,” Lestrade greeted him with a wide grin.

The detective paused in the doorway as he took in the amused expression on the DI’s face and groaned. “Will I ever live this down?”

The silver haired man leaned back in his chair and swung his legs up onto the desk. “Nope,” he replied cheerfully. “You never learn, Sunshine. Perhaps next time you’ll stop and think before you start shooting off deductions around people who don’t know you.”

He arched a brow. “Do you really think _that_ will happen?” Sherlock asked, coming in and throwing himself down into a chair.

Lestrade snorted. “Nah, not a chance. But I guess as long as you have your brother and me to get you out of trouble, you won’t _have_ to stop.” He shrugged. “Worth a shot though.”

“So what can I do for you today?” he asked, picking up a pen and twirling it between his fingers.

“For me? Nothing,” Lestrade said, the easy grin still on his lips. He leaned forward, taking his feet off the desk and allowing his chair to fall to the ground with a _thud_. “It seems though that you impressed someone over in Jasper. We had a call from one of the detectives there, requesting your assistance.”

“What?” Sherlock asked, shocked.

Lestrade picked up a folder and flipped through it. “Yeah, a Detective Ling? She’s the one I spoke to to get your arse out of jail.” He closed the file and tossed it onto the desk in front of the younger man. “She’s got a tricky case on her hands and isn’t having any luck. Said she was impressed with how you put together all the loose threads and asked if you could take a look. She emailed through all she had and it’s all there in that file.”

Sherlock flipped through it, his brow creased in thought. “Why didn't she contact me directly?”

The DI shrugged. “Probably not official enough. You’ve come to an understanding with the Met since you’ve been back, and are officially on the payroll now. The Canadian coppers aren’t going to want to use a private detective anymore than we did.”

He glared at Lestrade. “I am _not_ a PI!”

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “I know that, you prat. _They_ don’t though.”

“They should - I told them enough times whilst they had me in interrogation.”

The older man sighed. “It’s still a foreign concept to them, Sherlock. Coming through us makes it easier for them, and this woman seems to understand that she needs help and is reaching out. Are you going to give it?”

He flipped through the file again. “Of course I am,” he said. “This is more interesting than anything else I have on right now.”

“Good.” Lestrade smiled and got to his feet. “I’ve got meeting room 2 all set up for a video conference. I’ll take you down there.”

~~~~~~~~

Sherlock had lost track of time by the time he finished up with Ling. He had asked her numerous questions about her case (a body had turned up and she had managed to link it to four others that had been found around the province) and they had gone over everything she had piece by piece. He was unable to see the dump site but she had taken video of it and he’d examined it closely. By the time they had gone over everything multiple times, he had given her several leads she could chase up and she promised to be in touch when she had found anything.

He looked up as he disconnected the call and found Lestrade standing there. “Hey, are you all done?”

He nodded and stood, his eyes falling on the empty bullpen through the window to the meeting room. Only two desks were occupied by the night shift. “I didn’t realise it was so late.”

“Yep, little boys and girls are already in bed by now.” The DI crooked a finger at him. “Come on, Sunshine, I’ll give you a lift home,” he said, and turned to go.

Sherlock froze, wondering how he could decline without raising suspicions. He had promised Mycroft he would stay there tonight and he didn’t like the idea of going all the way to Baker Street just to then have to find his way to Pall Mall. Lestrade noticed he wasn’t following and turned back with a question in his eyes. “What’s up? Need to do something else for the case?”

“Erm, no, not exactly,” he said, cursing his brain for failing him right at this very moment. He was Sherlock _Bloody_ Holmes for crying out loud - coming up with an excuse should be easy for him.

Lestrade regarded him for a long moment, and then stepped into the room. He reached out and touched Sherlock’s arm gently. “I can drop you at Mycroft’s, it’s no problem.”

“Excuse me?” he asked, his voice coming out in a squeak but he couldn’t quite hear it over the alarm bells going off in his head. What did he mean? Did Lestrade know? Had someone given away their secret? What would happen now?

His thoughts must have been visible on his face as the DI shook his head and gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t freak out on me, Sherlock, it’s okay. I’ve known for ages now.”

“What? How?”

He quirked his lip and shook his head again, this time in exasperation. “You never give me enough credit, you big git. I may not ever be able to compare to the likes of you, but in my own right I’m a damn good copper. I know how to spot things like this.”

“You’re not going to arrest us?” he asked quietly, still unsure if his world was going to come crashing down around him.

“What? No! Do you really think I would do that?” Lestrade looked genuinely hurt.

Sherlock shrugged. “It _is_ your job.”

“It’s also been my job to arrest John for killing that cabbie - yes, of _course_ I knew about that, give me some credit - and I should have arrested you for turning up high to a crime scene more than once, oh and let’s not forget all the other laws you break on a regular basis.” He caught Sherlock’s questioning look. “Oh, come on! You break into people’s houses to look for evidence, impersonate a police officer when it suits, have an unregistered firearm in your flat, steal police property, the list is endless! Oh, and about that last one - I _will_ need my bloody handcuffs back.”

Sherlock was impressed, but also shocked. “So why haven’t you? You don’t strike me as the sort to overlook those sorts of things for...for a friend.”

Lestrade huffed. “You’re not just a friend, you big idiot. You’re _family_ by now, Sherlock. Besides, for all the good you do, I can overlook some of the more minor matters.”

“Murder is minor?” he asked cheekily, unable to help himself.

“Don’t fucking push it!” the DI told him, shaking a finger at him. “The man was a serial killer, besides, it wasn’t you who pulled the trigger, but John. Anyway, _my point_ is that you being in a relationship with Mycroft is the least of my concerns.”

“How long? How long have you known?”

“Since you got shot that time with the case with that pop star.”

“But that was right at the start!”

He shrugged. “And? I’ve known you both for a long time, Sherlock. I could see you were both different.” His eyes softened. “You were both _happy_.”

“So what happens now?”

“We got down to the garage, I get my car, drop you off at your brother’s house, and then whatever you do then is up to you. I’ll remain blissfully ignorant as I go home and have a beer.”

Sherlock shook his head, still shocked at this development. How? _How_ had they gotten so lucky with the people who knew? That would be something he could ponder later - it was late and Mycroft would start to worry if he was much later. Lestrade turned and Sherlock followed him, wrapping his scarf around his neck as he went.

~~~~~~~

He let himself into Mycroft’s house, following his nose down to the kitchen where heavenly smells were wafting from. His brother was standing at the stove, an apron wrapped around his slender waist and was frowning down at a cookbook, holding a wooden spoon in one hand.

“This looks frightfully domestic,” Sherlock announced, before stepping up to his back and wrapping his arms around him.

“I’m trying to recreate the dish we both loved that we got from room service at the Chateau,” he explained. “I can’t seem to get it right though.” He glared at the pan and then turned, holding the spoon out to Sherlock to taste.

“Hmmm,” Sherlock said, rolling the sauce around on his tongue. “There’s something definitely missing.”

“I know that, but what?” Mycroft flicked the page over in the recipe book, scanning the ingredient list again.

“I don’t know if it will be listed in the book,” Sherlock said, reaching over and closing it.

“Oh?”

“Nope,” he said, moving his hand to turn the stove top off. “It’s a very special ingredient.”

“Really?” Mycroft asked, putting the spoon down and twisting in his brother’s arms. “What have I forgotten to add?”

“Well, it’s not really something you add to the dish itself,” Sherlock said, nosing along Mycroft’s jaw. “More a palate cleanser before you start eating.”

“I see,” his brother said, his breath hitching a little. “Would this secret ingredient be something a little bit creamy by any chance?”

“Could be,” he agreed, inserting a knee between Mycroft’s legs and pressing their groins together.

“Maybe a little bitter and salty?”

“Uh huh.”

“Sounds like it’s a _very_ special ingredient.”

Sherlock reached around and pulled at the ties of the apron. “It’s generally rather common but the particular sort _we_ need is very rare.”

“Is it?”

“Only you and I can harvest it.”

“Is that so?” Mycroft grinned. “Are we going to drop this ridiculous charade now and suck each other off?”

“Who is it who is always lecturing me on patience?” Sherlock asked archly.

“No idea,” Mycroft murmured, pushing him back from the bench and walking him backwards from the room. “I should like to meet him though. He sounds very clever.”

“Oh, he is,” Sherlock said in a breathy voice as Mycroft licked at his throat. “He’s the smart one, after all.”

They made it into the living room and Sherlock fell back onto the couch, holding his brother’s hips as he straddled him. “He must be smart, if he loves you,” Mycroft said, kissing his way down to his chest.

“Just as much as I love him.” Sherlock let his head loll back and his eyes closed, allowing himself to just feel as Mycroft took him apart. His heart was full of love for his brother, and he reached out blindly, finding one of his hands and linking their fingers together, vowing to never let go.

 

~ _fin_ ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are my friends, the end has come. Thank you so much to everyone who read, commented, and left kudos. I appreciate it so much, your support has been amazing. I will be taking a break from this universe for awhile to concentrate on some other Mylock adventures but one day I do plan to return to this one - as long as I can come up with a plot that makes it a worthwhile read. I don't want to churn shit out just for the sake of it!  
> The invite to the FB group is an ongoing thing so please drop me an email at scarletmanuka@gmail.com if you'd like to join, even if you're reading this well after it has been published.  
> Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed! xxx

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Mylock fan-art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11735223) by [Tikatikox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tikatikox/pseuds/Tikatikox)




End file.
